r«u 

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GIFT   OF 
A.    P.    Forriscr 


ABBE  PIERRE 


ABBE  PIERRE 

BY 

JAY  WILLIAM   HUDSON 


D.    APPLETON   AND    COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  ::MCMXXII  ::  LONDON 


GIFT  OF 


'  COPYRIGHT,'  H9?2, ;  BY ; 
D.  APPlifrP'ON  AND  COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 


To  G. 


M101947 


Along  the  roads  of  Gascony 

Is  heard  the  sound  of  wooden  shoes 

Up  the  hills  and  down  again; 

Clatter,  clatter, 

Clack,  clack, 

The  young,  and  the  old  with  bended  back, 
Peasant  women  and  peasant  men, 
With  lives  to  live  and  little  to  choose 

Along  the  roads  of  Gascony. 

The  sunny  fields  of  Gascony 

The  peasants  plow  in  wooden  shoest 

Red  sash,  and  black  beret; 

Plack,  plack, 

Plock,  plock, 

Wooden  shoes  and  blue  smock; 
Hear  them  cry,  "Ha!  Mascaret!" . 
At  the  oxen  that  they  use 

Among  the  hills  of  Gascony. 

Along  the  roads  of  Gascony 

The  blackbirds  sing  of  fair  to-morrows; 

On  happy  vineyards  the  sunlight  gleams; 

Clack,  clack, 

Clop,  clop, 

The  wooden  shoes,  they  never  stop! 
Rhythmic  with  the  peasant's  dreams, 
Rhyming  with  his  joys  and  sorrows, 

Down  the  roads  of  Gascony. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     How  I  CAME  TO  WRITE  THESE 

THINGS l 

II.     THE  PROCESSION  OF  THE  CROWS  8 

III.  A   CONJECTURE  15 

IV.  WHY  I  SHOOK  MY  HEAD     .      .  24 
V.     A  GREAT  QUESTION     ...  27 

VI.     OUR  VILLAGE 35 

VII.     I  HAVE  VISITORS     ....  44 

VIII.     THEY  CALL  Us  PROVINCIAL     .  52 

IX.     How  I  WENT  TO  MARGOUET    .  59 

X.     How  THE  FETE  BEGAN     .      .  7° 

XI.     How  THE  FETE  ENDED     .      .  83 

XII      WE    TAKE    OURSELVES    SERI 
OUSLY  90 

XIII.  THE  LITTLE  DOCTOR    ...  102 

XIV.  THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  ROAD  OF 

THE  MADONNA    .      .      •      •  lo8 

XV.     I   CELEBRATE  A   SAINT     .      .  n8 

XVI.     WOODEN  SHOES       .      .      •      •  I28 

XVII.     ON  BEING  MADE  RIDICULOUS  135 

XVIII.     CABBAGE  PLANTS  AND  PEOPLE  14° 


IX 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XIX.  GOSSIP . 

XX.  AT  NIGHT 

XXI.  ST.  JOHN'S  EVE      .      .      .      . 

XXII.  OLD  ABBE   CASTEX       .      .      . 

XXIII.  AUNT  MADELEINE  INSISTS 

XXIV.  I  GET  A  NEW  PUPIL     . 
XXV.  THE  ROAD    ...... 

XXVI.  IN  GERMAINE'S  GARDEN     . 

XXVII.  MONSIEUR  WARE  TURNS  POET 

XXVIII.  I  CALL  FOR  DAVID     .      .     , 

XXIX.  A  SINGER  OF  GASCONY     .      . 

XXX.  THE  LAST  WOLVES  OF  AIGNAN 

XXXI.  WHAT  ONE  GETS  FOR  A  PAIR 
OF  GLOVES      .      .      „      .      . 

XXXII.  THE  PIPES  OF  PAN     .      .      . 

XXXIII.  MADAME  SANCE  ASKS  ADVICE 

XXXIV.  THE  CHURCH  ON  THE  HILL     . 
XXXV.  I  SEEK  A  PARISH     .  .      . 

XXXVI.  HAVE  PITY,  O  GOD!     .      ,     , 

XXXVII.  THE  INEVITABLE     .      .      .     .. 

XXXVIII.  COMPROMISES     .      .      .      .      . 

XXXIX.  THE  WEDDING  .      .      . 

XL.  SUNSETS 


PAGE 
146 

J55 

163 

174 
182 


206 

217 

227 

230 
234 

242 

262 
269 

277 
284 
294 

305 
306 


ABBE  PIERRE 


ABBE  PIERRE 


Chapter  I :  How  I  Came  to  Write  These 
Things 

IF  one  walks  through  our  little  village  of  Aignan 
northward  by  the  Street  of  the  Church,  passing 
the  covered  poultry  market,  and  the  Due 
d'Armagnac's  house,  and  the  shop  of  the  sabot- 
maker  (where  the  big,  wooden  shoe  hangs  high 
over  the  narrow  sidewalk),  he  soon  arrives  at  our 
ancient  church  with  its  Roman  tower,  discolored 
with  age,  mended  and  patched  and  re-mended  by 
many  generations.  The  church  seems  to  lie  ab 
ruptly  in  the  way,  but  a  second  look  shows  that  the 
street  leads  around  it,  past  a  broken  bit  of  wall — 
the  remnant  of  fortifications  such  as  are  found  in 
so  many  of  our  Gascon  villages.  If  one  keeps 
straight  on,  by  the  long,  gray  cemetery  wall,  over 
which  are  seen  the  tall  cypress  trees,  he  comes  to  a 
sunny  vineyard,  and  then  to  a  rusty,  iron  gate,  which 
creaks  on  its  hinges.  Just  inside  this  gate,  on  the 
right,  is  my  garden-house,  with  the  doo;r  wide  open. 
Anybody  who  calls,  "Monsieur  TAbbe!"  will  soon 
see  me  at  the  door,  extending  him  a  real  welcome. 
For  I  like  my  friends  to  come  and  visit  me  in  my 
garden,  although  sometimes  whole  days  go  by,  and 

i 


2  Abbe  Pierre 

no  one  comes,  and  the  only  human  thing  I  hear  is 
the  clatter  of  wooden  shoes  on  the  hard,  white  road 
outside,  or  |a  peasant  rattling  by  with  his  ox-cart,  or 
children  driving  by  their  cows  and  geese. 

I  arn  here  in  my  garden-house  now,  and  very  con 
veniently  have  I  arranged  it  so  that  I  can  write  the 
things  I  have  long  wanted  to  write.  I  wish  that  my 
old  friend,  the  Abbe  Rivoire,  were  not  so  far  away, 
so  that  he  could  see  it  all,  just  as  it  is.  I  have  made 
a  sturdy  table  with  some  thick  boards,  nailed  firmly 
on  two  boxes  which  Monsieur  Rigor,  the  proprietor 
of  the  cafe,  gave  me.  It  is  covered  with  a  cloth,  so 
that  the  boards  do  not  show  in  the  least.  I  have 
placed  it  so  that,  as  I  write,  I  look  out  the  doorway, 
which  frames  the  church  tower  against  the  sky  like 
a  clear-cut  picture;  only,  this  particular  picture  has 
the  advantage  of  varying  every  hour  with  the  mov 
ing  clouds  and  the  changing  sun  and  the  shadows 
that  do  not  long  remain  the  same.  No  one  ever  had 
a  more  beautiful  place  or  a  more  quiet  place  in  which 
to  write.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  I  become  so  inter 
ested  in  the  thoughts  that  come  to  me  that  I  forget 
to  set  them  down;  and,  helas!  they  are  the  best 
thoughts  of  all — the  thoughts  we  have  when  we  fall 
into  long  reveries  on  a  summer's  afternoon,  and  then 
awake  with  a  start,  somehow  feeling  that  we  have 
been  near  infinite  things.  But  one  cannot  put  such 
thoughts  on  paper.  No,  the  words  will  not  come 
soon  enough,  and,  before  we  know  it,  the  mood  has 
passed. 

I  have  just  said  that  this  is  a  beautiful  place  in 
which  to  write,  and  yet,  I  realize  that  it  might  not 


How  I  Came  to  Write  These  Things      3 

look  entirely  beautiful  to  everybody.  For  instance, 
these  walls  are  not  really  beautiful;  they  are  the 
same  inside  as  outside,  made  in  our  rough  Gascon 
way  of  a  framework  of  wooden  beams,  filled  in  with 
much  yellow  clay  and  stones  of  many  shapes  and 
sizes.  That  work-bench  of  my  father's  by  the  door, 
covered  with  a  disorderly  miscellany  of  tools;  that 
pannier  of  potatoes  in  the  middle  of  the  dirt  floor; 
those  two  old,  broken  candelabra  from  the  church 
lying  in  the  corner;  this  box  of  tumbled  books  by  my 
table — all  these  may  belie  the  note  of  beauty.  But, 
then,  is  it  not  all  in  the  way  one  looks  at  it?  My 
young  friend,  Henri,  who  is  really  an  artist,  came 
to  see  me  lately,  and  he  thought  it  was  picturesque  at 
any  rate! 

There  is  one  thing  here  that  is  indeed  beautiful. 
It  is  the  silver  crucifix  on  my  table. 

It  is  very  old. 

This  hilltop  of  Gascony,  where  I  was  born!  How 
strange  it  is  and  how  good  it  is  to  be  here  again! 
Above  all,  to  know  that  here  I  shall  stay  through 
the  years  that  yet  belong  to  me !  The  Abbe  Rivoire 
used  to  ask  me,  knowing  my  love  for  the  place,  if  I 
never  had  the  ambition  to  be  the  cure  of  this,  my 
native  village.  Well,  the  very  old  Abbe  Castex  is 
the  priest  of  our  parish.  He  is  even  older  than  I  am, 
and  leans  upon  a  cane.  At  any  time  during  the  last 
forty  years  I  might  have  been  the  cure  of  one  of  our 
Gascon  villages;  but  there  are  many  ways  of  serving 
the  good  God,  and  my  way  early  led  me  far  from 
my  parents  here  to  that  great  city  which  the  whole 
world  wonders  at.  Paris !  It  is  close  to  that  center 


4  Abbe  Pierre 

of  things  that  I  have  been  a  professor  in  our  ancient 
College  St.  Thomas  d'Aquin  for  these  forty  years 
since  I  took  priestly  orders.  How  fast  a  man's  life 
goes !  And  every  summer  holiday  when  I  could,  I 
have  come  back  here  to  this  village  of  my  boyhood, 
where  my  feeble  old  father  still  lives  at  the  age  of 
eighty-six — my  father,  whose  eyes  are  almost  too 
dim  to  see  me  any  more,  who  lives  only  in  my  com 
ings  and  goings,  and  who  is  very  proud  of  his  son — 
it  is  not  mine  to  say  what  for.  If  he  is  proud  that 
I  could  spend  these  years  imparting  philosophy  (and 
sometimes  Latin)  to  the  young  minds  that  belong 
to  the  to-morrow  of  France,  well,  it  does  him  no 
harm.  And  if  he  likes  to  talk  of  those  two  summers 
long  ago  when,  while  yet  a  student,  I  actually  took 
the  place  of  a  priest  in  London,  I  shall  not  greatly 
object,  for  my  father  admires  nobody  more  than  a 
traveler — he,  who  has  never  left  this  part  of  Gas- 
cony  in  all  his  years.  But  these  travels  did  help  my 
English,  so  that,  at  length,  I  could  teach  it  to  our 
French  boys,  and  could  actually  read  with  pleasure 
such  a  poet  as  Wordsworth,  and  even  such  a  novel 
ist  as  Monsieur  Hardy.  I  recall  two  of  my  favor 
ites,  although  I  do  not  by  any  means  approve  of  all 
they  write,  especially  when  they  touch  upon  theologi 
cal  matters — concerning  which  I  surely  have  a  right 
to  say  something! 

But  now  I  am  getting  along  in  years  myself,  and 
if  a  man  of  sixty-five  can  be  said  to  be  old,  why, 
then,  I  am  old.  And  always  I  have  cherished  in  my 
heart  the  day  when  I  could  come  back  to  this  little 
village,  yes,  to  this  very  garden,  and  spend  the  time 


How  I  Came  to  Write  These  Things      5 

when  life  casts  its  longer,  gentler  shadows  in  this 
happiest  of  places.  For  I  have  been  about  the 
world  considerably,  having  been  to  many  places  in 
France,  besides  those  two  journeys  to  London;  I 
have  also  read  about  other  countries  and  cities,  and 
thought  about  the  matter  a  good  deal;  and  I  have 
reason  to  know  now  that  there  is  no  place  like  this, 
our  village  of  Aignan,  here  in  the  heart  of  Gas- 
cony! 

There  is  one  great  disappointment,  though;  there 
is  no  longer  any  one  here  in  my  village  to  whom  I  can 
talk  with  any  satisfaction.  It  was  different  when 
Jean-Louis  Sance  was  alive!  Our  friendship  began 
when  we  were  boys  at  school,  and  was  renewed 
through  the  many  summers  when  I  came  back  here. 
How  many  hours  we  spent  together  in  his  shady 
garden  in  the  Road  of  the  Madonna,  speaking  of  the 
great  things  of  life — things  that  ordinary  men  do 
not  even  try  to  understand!  But  he  is  gone  now. 
Of  course,  there  is  the  Abbe  Castex;  but  he  is  so  old 
that  his  mind  is  not  all  that  it  once  was ;  and  it  never 
was  a  very  great  mind.  So  it  is  that  already  I 
doubly  miss  the  Abbe  Rivoire,  my  closest  colleague 
at  our  dear  school  where  I  have  taught  all  these 
years.  With  him  I  was  intimate  as  with  no  other. 
Even  when  he  became  an  invalid  and  could  teach  no 
more,  I  continued  seeing  him  often,  so  that  our 
precious  comradeship  ceased  not.  If  only  he  were 
here,  I  could  easily  prove  to  him  that  this  Gascony 
of  ours  is  far  above  the  things  I  used  to  tell  him, 
although  he  always  thought  me  extravagant  in  my 


6  Abbe  Pierre 

praise.  Not  only  do  I  miss  him,  but  I  greatly  fear 
that  he,  too,  will  be  lonely,  now  that  I  cannot  visit 
him  any  more  in  his  sister's  little  house  near  Paris. 

But  if  I  cannot  share  my  reflections  with  any  one 
else,  it  occurs  to  me  that  I  can  at  least  write  them 
down  for  my  own  pleasure.  There  is  this  much  use 
in  it:  the  best  part  of  one's  life  is  the  time  one  lives 
with  his  thoughts;  and,  certainly,  this  is  true — if 
one  does  not  express  his  thoughts,  they  are  likely  to 
die.  Then,  if  it  should  so  happen  that  I  write  some 
thing  worthy,  something  that  I  think  would  interest 
the  Abbe  Rivoire,  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  send  it  to 
him,  to  help  him  while  away  his  tedious  hours.  It 
will  take  the  place  of  that  journey  to  my  village,  of 
which  he  has  so  often  spoken,  but  which,  alas,  I  now 
suspect  he  will  never  accomplish ! 

More  and  more,  during  these  later  years,  when  I 
have  come  back  here  for  my  holiday,  I  have  noticed 
things  about  my  fellow  villagers  that  I  had  never 
observed  before;  things  of  which  they  themselves 
are  not  aware,  because  they  live  here  all  the  time 
and  take  their  lives  as  a  matter  of  course.  This  time, 
particularly,  returning  to  this  blessed  place  to  wander 
forth  nevermore,  I  find  myself  looking  upon  this 
most  charming  corner  of  the  world  in  a  way  that 
gives  rise  to  a  multitude  of  new  thoughts.  Truly,  it 
will  be  a  novelty  to  be  able  to  forget  the  sterner 
things  of  the  philosophers,  and  to  set  down  my  mus 
ings,  just  as  they  come,  here  in  my  garden-house, 
which  looks  out  not  only  on  the  church  tower,  but 
over  the  red-tiled  roofs  of  my  village  to  the  most 


How  I  Came  to  Write  These  Things      7 

wonderful  country  the  eyes  of  man  ever  saw — end 
ing  with  the  distant  Pyrenees,  on  whose  towering 
summits  the  snow  gleams  against  the  sky,  even 
though  it  is  the  last  of  May,  and  the  roses  are  in 
bloom. 


Chapter  II:  The  Procession  of  the  Crows 

NOT  far  away  from  my  garden  is  the  house 
where  I  live  with  my  old  father,  in  the  Street 
of  the  Church.  Last  night,  about  nine 
o'clock,  when  it  was  quite  dark,  I  was  attracted  to 
my  upper  window  (the  shutters  of  which  were  wide 
open)  by  a  great  medley  of  strange  noises,  which 
grew  louder  every  moment.  The  first  sound  I  was 
able  clearly  to  distinguish  above  the  hubbub  was  the 
monotonous  rattle  of  a  drum,  and  then  a  riot  of 
confused  shouts  from  the  Place  in  the  center  of  the 
village,  which  opens  into  my  street.  Soon  I  saw 
coming  toward  me,  around  the  corner  by  Rigor's 
cafe,  a  disorderly  procession  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  whose  faces,  lighted  by  flaming  torches, 
surged  onward  like  the  crests  of  countless  waves 
gleaming  on  a  restless  sea.  They  bore  with  them 
numerous  Japanese  lanterns  of  all  colors,  hung  high 
on  poles.  As  they  came  nearer,  I  could  see,  toward 
the  front  of  the  procession,  a  large  flag. 

This  is  the  way  it  was :  First,  there  was  the  drum, 
never  ceasing  its  strident  rubadub;  then  the  flam 
beaux,  carried  high  above  the  bobbing  heads  of  the 
crowd;  then  eager  young  men  and  women,  many  of 

8 


The  Procession  of  the  Crows        9 

them  arm  in  arm,  and  a  host  of  children,  laughing 
and  shouting,  amid  which  arose  the  brackets  of  gay 
paper  lanterns;  and  then,  at  the  rear,  the  older 
women,  some  with  babies  in  their  arms.  As  the 
procession  approached,  the  ever-moving  lights 
danced  on  the  plastered  fronts  of  the  houses  along 
our  narrow  street,  making  weird  shadows,  and  the 
shouts  and  laughter  and  singing  grew  deafening,  and 
there  came  from  the  crowd,  above  all  other  sounds, 
a  confusion  of  raucous  cries  like  the  call  of  a  multi 
tude  of  crows,  or  corbeaux,  as  we  popularly  speak 
of  them.  At  the  very  front  of  the  procession,  I  could 
make  out  the  stalwart  form  of  Bajac,  the  butcher, 
just  behind  the  drummer.  I  could  also  distinguish 
Sarrade,  the  sabot-maker  (he  is  a  very  small,  chubby 
man,  with  a  rosy  face  and  black  hair  and  mustache), 
and  the  postman,  and  Victor  Claverie,  the  village 
crier;  then  the  janitor  of  the  town  hall;  also  the 
guardian  of  the  forest,  and  many  others  whom  I  knew 
well.  I  had  noticed  that,  occasionally,  the  whole 
procession  would  stop  in  front  of  a  house  and  call 
out  something;  then  they  would  proceed  as  before. 
When  they  arrived  in  front  of  my  house,  they  stopped 
again,  and  this  time  I  could  discern  what  they  were 
shouting.  It  was  "Come  out,  all  you  blacks!"  And 
then  I  knew  at  once  what  the  procession  was,  as  I 
should  have  guessed  before,  if  I  had  not  been  dream 
ing;  it  was  the  annual  "procession  of  the  blacks," 
or,  as  we  have  long  called  it,  the  cortege  of  crows. 

Now,  so  far  as  I  know,  such  an  interesting  thing 
does  not  occur  elsewhere  in  the  whole  world.  (I 
shall  have  to  inquire  of  the  Abbe  Rivoire;  he,  being 


10  Abbe  Pierre 

a  historian,  may  have  heard  of  it  in  some  other 
place.)  Every  year,  at  the  very  end  of  May,  all 
people  that  are  fortunate  enough  to  have  jet  black 
hair  and  dark  complexions,  meet  at  night  in  the 
Place,  in  front  of  the  town  hall,  to  march  in  this  pro 
cession,  under  the  leadership  of  the  chief  of  the 
crows,  who  just  now  happens  to  be  Bajac,  the 
butcher.  Although  his  hair  is  now  nearly  white,  he 
once  had  hair  as  black  and  a  complexion  as  swarthy 
as  any  crow,  so  it  does  not  matter;  for  after  all, 
in  this  world  it  is  what  a  man  really  is  that  counts, 
not  the  accidents  of  age ;  and  I  am  glad  that  this  is 
so,  and  it  ought  to  be  a  rule  more  universally  fol 
lowed.  Well,  every  year  since  the  night  of  time  (as 
the  saying  is)  they  have  assembled  this  way  from  all 
the  country  round  in  our  little  village  on  the  ap 
pointed  night;  and  the  procession  is  not  all.  As  they 
stopped  last  night  in  front  of  the  houses,  loudly  call 
ing  for  recruits,  the  procession  grew  ever  larger. 
Up  the  Street  of  the  Church  they  went,  past  the 
church,  down  the  Road  of  the  Madonna,  on  by  the 
large,  iron  cross,  until  they  arrived  at  the  fine  house 
and  garden  of  Dr.  Dousset,  who  is  our  mayor,  just 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  The  doctor  came  out 
and  cheerfully  put  some  coins  in  the  hat  passed 
around  for  money  to  pay  for  refreshments  at  the 
cafe  afterwards.  He  even  marched  in  the  proces 
sion  a  little  way,  as  it  turned  again  toward  the  vil 
lage  by  the  back  street.  When  the  procession  finally 
got  back  to  the  Place,  having  passed  the  old  cure's 
house,  and  Madame  Lacoste's,  and  the  Hotel  Maul- 
ezun,  and  the  post  office,  it  was  twice  as  large  as 


The  Procession  of  the  Crows      II 

when  it  started.  In  the  meantime,  one  thing  had 
occurred  which  showed  the  spirit  of  the  crowd. 
There  was  a  man  last  year  who  closed  his  door 
when  the  procession  passed,  and  who  defied  the 
ancient  custom,  and  would  give  nothing  for  refresh 
ments.  Last  night,  when  they  passed  his  home 
near  the  post  office,  they  hissed  him  and  his 
house,  even  though  it  is  one  of  the  grandest  in 
the  village,  and  he  is  a  wealthy  landowner,  and  be 
longs  to  the  old  family  of  Caperan.  One  cannot 
defy  the  ancient  customs  in  our  village,  and  one  must 
be  ever  careful  how  he  lightly  treats  things  that  are 
sanctified  by  time.  There  is  too  much  of  that  these 
days. 

When  the  procession,  with  still  more  torches  and 
lanterns,  had  all  assembled  in  the  Place,  near  the 
village  pump,  with  a  goodly  collection  of  money  in 
the  hat,  so  that  everybody  might  quench  his  thirst, 
the  real  festivities  began.  First,  the  village  crier, 
Victor  Claverie,  who  considers  himself  quite  a  wit, 
and  has  a  loud,  oratorical  sort  of  voice  (as  a  village 
crier  should  have) ,  got  up  in  the  middle  of  the  crowd 
and  announced  that  the  next  thing  would  be  a  grand 
ball,  and  then  a  bull-fight,  with  electricity,  at  mid 
night.  One  sees  by  this  how  good-natured  the  crowd 
felt,  how  like  little  children  they  were  in  their  gar 
rulous  light-heartedness,  for  they  all  applauded  him 
laughingly,  although  there  is  no  electricity  or  elec 
tric  lights  in  our  village,  and  they  knew  there  was 
to  be  no  bull-fight,  much  as  they  would  have  liked 
to  see  one,  or,  at  any  rate,  a  cow-fight,  such 
as  we  have  on  fete-days.  But  they  did  have  what 


12  Abbe  Pierre 

answered  to  a  grand  ball,  as  they  always  do,  for, 
at  that  very  moment,  the  solitary  fiddler  in  front  of 
the  Cafe  Ladoues  struck  up  a  lively  tune,  and  the 
fun  began.  Oh,  it  was  a  merry  sight  to  see  them, 
young  and  old,  dancing  the  giddy  quadrilles,  with 
their  maddening,  care-free  abandon;  the  vigorous 
rondos,  that  got  the  older  people  quite  out  of  breath 
before  they  were  over,  so  that  they  retired  to  the 
edge  of  the  crowd,  exhausted;  and  then,  the  milder 
polkas  and  waltzes,  in  which  everybody  joined,  with 
much  good-natured  jostling,  the  Place  all  the  while 
echoing  to  the  multitudes  of  eager  feet  beating  out 
their  rough  rhythm  on  the  hard  earth.  And  round 
about,  the  fitful  lights  of  the  flambeaux  flickering  on 
the  white  walls  of  the  surrounding  buildings;  and, 
overhead,  the  stars  looking  down  from  a  clear  sky — 
although  I  do  not  think  that  it  occurred  to  anybody 
to  notice  them. 

I  had  a  glimpse  of  the  dancing  from  my  window 
at  first;,  and  later,  while  standing  in  my  doorway  to 
breathe  the  air  before  going  to  bed.  And  while 
there,  I  saw  something  out  of  the  ordinary.  It  is 
rarely  that  strangers  come  to  our  village,  since  it  is 
away  from  any  railroad;  so,  it  was  with  considerable 
surprise  that  I  saw  a  tall,  fair-haired,  beardless 
young  man,  whom  I  had  never  seen  before,  and 
without  doubt  a  foreigner  of  some  sort,  standing  by 
himself  somewhat  beyond  the  circle  of  the  crowd.  I 
could  not  see  him  very  distinctly;  but  one  moment, 
when  the  torches  were  flaring  a  little  higher  than 
usual  and  were  shining  on  his  face,  I  thought  that 
he  looked  like  an  Englishman.  Suddenly,  it  occurred 


The  Procession  of  the  Crows      13 

to  me  that  he  must  be  the  American  that  has  lately 
come  to  our  village  with  his  invalid  sister,  and  about 
whom  I  have  heard  some  interesting  things,  although 
I  have  not  yet  met  him. 

After  I  had  stood  in  my  doorway  a  short  time, 
the  butcher,  Bajac,  happened  to  stroll  down  the 
street.  I  ventured  to  ask  him  the  reason  why  we 
have  had  this  procession  every  year  since  the  time 
when  no  man  remembers,  for  I  like  to  know  the  rea 
son  of  things,  possibly  because  I  have  been  immersed 
in  philosophy  so  much;  and  I  had  never  heard  the 
real  explanation  of  this  cortege.  And  he  answered 
in  these  words : 

"Why,  don't  you  know?  This  is  the  anniversary 
of  the  day  God  painted  the  crows !" 

The  truth  is,  I  had  heard  this  reason  given  before, 
so  it  did  not  enlighten  me  in  the  least;  and  it  did  not 
seem  sensible  that  a  man  with  the  white  hair  of 
Bajac,  and  with  his  dignity,  and  chief  of  the  crows, 
too,  should  give  such  a  reason.  But  he  per 
sisted  in  it,  and  looked  perfectly  serious  when  he 
said  it,  and  would  give  no  other  explanation.  So,  I 
shook  my  head,  and,  happening  to  see  the  tall  form 
of  my  young  friend,  Henri,  whom  I  had  noticed 
dancing  with  a  number  of  the  best-looking  girls  of 
the  village — happening  to  see  him  passing,  I  took 
him  to  task  and  admonished  him  to  ask  of  those 
whom  he  should  meet  the  real  reason.  But  he  told 
me  afterwards  that  they  all  said  the  same  thing,  as 
if  they  knew  nothing  else, 

"It  is  the  day  God  painted  the  crows!" 

Although  I  went  to  bed  fairly  early,  and  could 


14  Abbe  Pierre 

hear  the  fiddling  far  into  the  night  (even  though 
I  closed  my  shutters),  I  could  not  help  thinking 
about  that  foolish  account  of  the  meaning  of  this 
custom.  And  it  was  only  to-day  that  my  old  friend, 
Marius  Fontan,  solved  the  riddle  for  me.  He  likes 
to  delve  among  old  documents  and  papers  hid  away 
in  the  most  unlikely  places,  and  nothing  interests 
him  so  much  as  to  ferret  out  things  of  the  ancient 
days,  especially  about  our  village.  And  he  says  that 
long,  long  ago  the  procession  of  the  crows  hap 
pened  not  at  the  end  of  May,  as  now,  but  about  the 
middle  of  August,  when  the  harvest  is  over,  and  the 
hay  is  cut  and  piled  in  stacks  in  the  fields,  and  the 
wheat  is  all  in,  and  the  workers  have  grown  swarthy 
in  this  southern  sun,  yes,  black  enough,  as  those  who 
have  seen  them  know!  These  were  the  "blacks'*  of 
those  old  days  and  this  is  why  they  were  black;  and 
so,  their  work  all  over,  they  sought  relaxation  and 
a  rejoicing  of  some  sort,  and  the  result  was  this 
cortege  of  crows  at  harvest-time,  and  the  dancing 
in  the  Place.  Only,  Marius  could  not  tell  me  when 
or  why  the  time  of  year  was  changed.  I  do  not  know 
surely  if  he  is  right  about  this  matter,  for  to  find  the 
truth  about  ancient  things  is  a  sufficiently  difficult 
task;  but,  undeniably,  this  account  is  better  than  that 
ridiculous  one  about  God  painting  the  crows ! 

At  all  events,  the  "procession  of  the  crows"  is  well 
named,  since  it  is  a  notorious  fact  that  these  birds, 
like  some  of  our  village  folk,  love  to  assemble  to 
gether  and  engage  in  noisy  demonstrations. 


Chapter  III :  A  Conjecture 

TO-DAY,  I  arose  later  than  usual,  because  the 
noise  of  the  dancing  kept  me  awake  so  long. 
When  I  had  said  mass  at  the  church,  I  came 
back    to    the    breakfast    prepared    by    my    Aunt 
Madeleine,  who  lives  with  my  old  father  and  me. 
My  Aunt  Madeleine  keeps  house  for  us,  and  very 
efficient  she  is,  if  also  somewhat  exacting,  the  sharp 
corners  of  her  disposition  never  having  been  rounded 
off  by  the  attrition  of  matrimony. 

Before  going  to  my  garden,  I  did  something  I 
should  have  done  several  days  ago.  I  made  a  plac 
ard  and  hung  it  up  in  the  window  of  our  front  door, 
downstairs : 


Lemons  de  Latin 
et  d* Anglais 


Anybody  seeing  this  sign  will  know  that  the  Abbe 
Pierre  Clement  is  home  again,  and  is  ready  to  give 
instruction,  just  as  he  has  done  for  a  number  of 
summers  past,  when  any  one  has  desired  it,  espe 
cially  to  the  young  boys  in  our  village  who  have  not 
done  quite  as  well  as  they  might  at  the  lycees  in  the 

15 


1 6  Abbe  Pierre 

neighboring  towns.  Probably  every  one  is  already 
aware  that  I  am  here,  since  it  is  difficult  to  keep  any 
thing  secret  in  our  small  village,  above  all,  the  ar 
rival  of  anybody,  be  he  friend  or  stranger. 

After  placing  this  notice  in  the  door,  I  went  out 
side  and  glanced  at  it  from  the  street  to  see  if  it 
was  legible  enough.  Perhaps  if  a  stranger  were 
looking  at  the  front  of  our  house,  he  would  be  at 
tracted  less  by  this  placard  of  mine  than  by  two 
small  ornaments  of  discolored  brass,  hung  on  the 
masonry  each  side  of  the  doorway.  They  are  the 
ancient  insignia  of  my  father's  profession,  each  rep 
resenting  a  dish,  with  a  circle  cut  into  one  side,  so 
that  one  being  shaved  could  hold  it  closely  fitted  to 
his  neck,  to  protect  himself  from  the  drippings  of  the 
lather.  My  father  followed  this  art  of  the  barber 
for  many  years;  and,  although  the  shaving  dish  is 
now  becoming  old-fashioned,  and  belongs  to  another 
age,  like  my  father  himself,  he  still  keeps  these  em 
blems  by  our  door.  For  he  ever  took  a  certain  pride 
in  his  profession,  knowing  it  to  be  an  honorable 
one,  it  being  mentioned  even  in  the  Holy  Scriptures, 
where  the  prophet  Ezekiel  makes  the  use  of  the 
barber's  razor  a  part  of  the  preparation  of  the  work 
of  the  Lord.  My  father  loves  to  talk  of  the  old 
times,  which  I  myself  remember,  although  I  was 
then  but  a  youth,  when  his  salon  was  the  place  of 
resort  for  the  best  people  of  the  village.  Ah,  many 
were  the  discussions  that  went  on  here,  and  many 
the  great  questions  decided  here,  especially  on  Satur 
day  nights,  when  there  gathered  together  such  im 
portant  men  as  the  notary,  and  the  proprietor  of  the 


A  Conjecture  17 

principal  cafe,  and  the  mayor.  So  it  is  but  natural 
that  my  father  likes  to  keep  by  his  door  these  re 
minders  of  the  good  old  days. 

Musing  on  these  things,  I  made  my  way  up  the 
hill,  past  the  church,  to  my  garden,  speaking  to  sev 
eral  people  who  passed  me  on  their  way  to  the  vil 
lage  pump  or  the  baker's.  I  recollected  that  it  was 
the  first  day  of  June;  and  such  a  June  morning, 
with  the  sun  shining  bright  on  the  white  houses, 
making  glorious  the  little  gardens — a  few  fleecy 
clouds  in  the  sky,  and  the  air  soft  and  balmy!  Ar 
rived  at  my  garden,  I  walked  by  my  garden-house 
without  opening  it,  up  the  path  by  the  fig  tree  with 
the  wooden  bench  underneath,  and  then  to  the  high 
est  point,  just  beyond  the  roses,  where  I  could  view 
the  country  for  miles  around. 

If  my  friend,  the  Abbe  Rivoire,  could  but  see  our 
Gascony  on  a  morning  like  this !  A  vast,  rolling  ex 
panse  of  valley  and  hill,  valley  and  hill — great  waves 
of  countless  hills  one  after  another,  breaking  into 
the  spray  of  trees  on  the  summits;  and  on  every 
summit  an  ancient  village  with  its  church  tower  ris 
ing  above  the  little,  clustered  houses,  the  good  gray 
guardian  of  a  long  past,  and  the  symbol  of  a  dream ! 
There  are  the  fields,  many  of  them  vineyards,  slop 
ing  in  every  direction  and  of  every  geometric  pat 
tern,  bordered  with  hedges,  dotted  with  white-walled 
houses,  their  red-tiled  roofs  mellowed  brown  by 
time;  trees  everywhere,  none  so  conspicuous  as  the 
tall,  upstanding  poplars,  following  the  devious  ways 
of  the  little  streams ;  everything  green,  green,  green, 
except  the  winding,  white  roads,  leading  up  hill,  and 


l8  Abbe  Pierre 

down  hill,  and  far  away  toward  the  lofty  Pyrenees, 
just  visible  through  the  delicate,  violet  haze  that 
floats  along  the  southern  edge  of  the  world  like  a 
thin  veil.  And,  over  all,  a  fast-vanishing,  dreamy 
mist,  touching  the  hills  and  valleys  like  a  timid  ca 
ress  !  Those  who  made  this  Gascon  landscape  were 
unconsciously  making  poetry.  It  is  like  precious 
pages  from  an  artist's  sketch-book,  made  for  his  own 
heart,  or  pictures  from  some  romance,  old  and 
fabled  and  forgotten.  Or,  one  might  say  that,  with 
its  rolling  hills  all  traced  out  into  designs  by  the 
roads  and  hedges,  it  is  like  an  undulating  tapestry — 
the  rare,  old  kind  one  sees  in  ancient  castles. 

Why,  even  the  names  of  the  villages  that  crown 
these  hills  make  poetry,  when  pronounced  in  our 
robust,  Gascon  way.  Castelnavet — is  it  not 
music? — there  it  is,  yonder  toward  the  south,  with 
its  tree-covered  mound  in  its  center,  gleaming  like 
a  toy  village;  Sabazan,  to  the  west,  with  its  heavy 
tower  against  the  sky  like  a  donjon-keep,  the  spine 
of  its  roof  so  high  that  the  whole  impression  is  that 
of  a  cat  humping  its  back!  Castelnau,  further  to 
ward  the  Pyrenees,  with  its  picturesque,  ruined 
fortress  on  a  high  hill,  dominating  the  fertile  valley 
of  the  Adour.  Like  poems  are  such  names,  I  say, 
made  thus  eloquent  to  fit  the  glory  of  the  landscape 
and  the  romance  of  the  long,  long  years  that  brought 
these  villages  into  being.  And  I  am  glad  there  has 
been  given  to  these  names  such  articulate  music 
through  which  our  villages  may  announce  their  exist 
ence  to  the  world — not  to  speak  of  other  villages  in 
this  same  part  of  Gascony,  the  sound  of  whose  names 


A  Conjecture  19 

is  ever  beautiful  to  my  ear,  such  as  Plaisance,  and 
Margouet,  and  Averon,  and  oh,  so  many  more ! 
Little  villages  which,  if  they  could  only  live  the 
music  of  their  names,  would  be  as  happy  as  they  look 
this  morning,  loved  into  new  beauty  by  the  June 
sun! 

While  I  was  quite  lost,  in  this  sort  of  reverie,  I 
heard  a  faint  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  road,  and, 
looking  through  the  trees  toward  the  gate  of  my 
garden,  I  perceived  a  young  girl  passing.  I  have 
often  envied  the  happy  talent  for  describing  people 
such  as  the  novelists  possess.  But  it  would  be  hard, 
even  for  the  best  of  novelists,  to  describe  this  girl, 
whom  I  have  known  from  her  infancy,  just  as  she 
appeared  this  morning,  transforming  the  common 
place  roadway  into  a  splendid  picture.  However,  I 
have  read  a  number  of  the  best  novels;  and  I  sup 
pose  that  a  conscientious  writer  of  that  craft  might 
describe  her  in  somewhat  the  following  way — that  is, 
if  he  saw  her  as  I  came  upon  her  in  front  of  my 
garden  gate;  for  she  had  heard  my  call,  and  had 
waited  there  in  the  sunlit  road:  A  slender  figure  in 
white,  her  head  immediately  attracting  attention  be 
cause  of  its  rich  abundance  of  loosely  arranged, 
black  hair,  dressed  over  the  ears  in  the  most  charm 
ing  way,  under  which  looked  out  a  face  that  held 
in  it  the  colors  of  the  most  delicate,  red  roses. 
Large,  black  eyes,  set  wide  apart,  modest  in  their 
regard,  and  filled  with  a  soft  light;  a  high  forehead, 
over  which  a  wave  or  two  of  hair  tumbled  ever  so 
gracefully;  a  strong  nose;  full,  red  lips,  with  a  touch 
of  sadness  in  them,  but  capable  of  the  mood  of  joy, 


20  Abbe  Pierre 

too,  when,  suddenly,  there  is  revealed  a  smile  very 
like  the  light  one  sees  flashing  over  the  snow  of  our 
Pyrenees  early  in  the  morning.  All  in  all,  a  face 
not  exactly  beautiful,  as  formalists  judge  of  beauty, 
but  better  than  merely  beautiful;  a  face  in  which  life 
and  health  and  high  spirits  and  sweet,  maidenly  mod 
esty  and  good  common  sense  shone  forth  as  the  sug 
gestion  of  the  temper  of  a  soul.  Her  dress  this 
morning  was  a  simple,  white  one,  with  sleeves  short 
enough  to  reveal  an  arm  round  and  capable.  Look 
at  the  quiet  glory  of  Gascony,  then  look  at  Ger- 
maine,  and  you  would  know  at  once  that  they  some 
how  belonged  to  each  other. 

Although  I,  myself,  would  use  soberer  language, 
I  suppose  a  novelist  would  describe  her  in  about 
this  manner;  and,  strange  to  say,  he  would  not  be 
greatly  erring  on  the  side  of  over-praise,  as  novel 
ists  often  do.  She  was  carrying  an  armful  of  roses, 
gathered  in  her  garden  on  the  other  side  of  the  vil 
lage. 

And  well  it  is  that  I  should  speak  of  Germaine 
Sance  in  this  pleasant  way,  for  her  father,  Jean- 
Louis,  was  one  of  the  best  friends  I  ever  had;  one 
of  the  stalwart,  big-hearted,  big-minded  men  of  this 
region,  whose  body,  alas,  has  been  lying  these  four 
years  in  the  little  cemetery  just  beyond  the  south 
boundary  of  my  vineyard.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  I, 
an  old  man,  should  feel  like  the  spiritual  father  of 
this  splendid  child  (I  call  her  "child,"  although  she 
is  now  nearly  nineteen),  when  I  myself  helped  to 
teach  her  the  catechism  and  shared  in  giving  her  her 
first  communion,  and,  with  her  father  in  the  flesh, 


A  Conjecture  21 

watched  her  grow  up,  from  the  days  when  she  first 
trudged  to  the  convent  school  on  the  hill? 

I  had  not  seen  Germaine  since  my  return  a  few 
days  ago.  That  is  why  I  called  to  her  as  soon  as 
I  saw  her. 

"Leave  your  roses  for  a  moment  here  in  the  shade 
of  the  chestnut  tree/'  I  said,  "while  you  walk  with 
me  a  little  in  my  garden  and  tell  me  the  news." 

"How  well  your  garden  looks!"  she  exclaimed. 
And  then  I  learned  that  her  mother  was  getting  the 
plowing  done  in  her  vineyard,  and  that  her  brother, 
Henri — what  a  man  he  is  growing  to  be ! — was  very 
busy,  which  I  can  well  believe,  since  it  takes  study 
to  become  a  tax  administrator,  as  I  proceeded  to 
remark. 

"He  not  only  studies,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  but  at 
times  he  does  his  painting,  too.  Lately,  he  made  a 
new  water-color  of  the  church  from  the  Street  of 
the  Balustrade." 

I  must  see  that  picture. 

I  had  to  ask  Germaine  if  her  garden  was  as  beau 
tiful  as  ever;  and  whether  her  mother  still  loved  the 
jasmine  as  she  used  to;  and  if  the  hollyhocks  were 
yet  in  bloom  along  the  edge  of  the  pond. 

"I  must  go  to  your  garden  soon,"  I  added,  "for 
the  sake  of  old  times !  You  know  your  father  and 
I  had  many  a  long  talk  in  that  garden  of  yours;  and 
it  is  so  much  larger  than  mine,  and  has  so  many 
more  flowers  and  trees." 

"The  grass  is  getting  long;  our  kitchen-girl's 
father  is  to  cut  it  for  his  cattle.  And — oh,  yes !  the 


22  Abbe  Pierre 

cherries  are  ripe;  and  we  hear  the  nightingale  when 
it  is  dark.  You  must  come !" 

Until  lately,  Germaine  had  been  away  to  school 
at  Bordeaux.  I  wondered  how  she  managed  to 
spend  her  time,  now  that  she  was  back  home  for 
good. 

"I  am  not  idle,  Monsieur  1'Abbe !  Besides  help 
ing  in  the  house,  I  look  after  the  garden — that  is 
what  I  like  best;  and  just  now,  too,  I  am  making 
some  filet  lace  for  curtains;  I  do  most  of  it  on  the 
bench  by  the  pond." 

Thus  talking,  we  reached  the  height  of  my  gar 
den,  where  I  had  been  drinking  in  that  vast  expanse 
of  Gascony  when  she  came  along  the  road.  I  told 
her  how  I  had  been  thinking  about  the  music  of  the 
names  of  the  villages  round  about. 

"Yes,  I  love  some  of  those  names  myself."  And 
then  I  saw  a  mischievous  smile  as  she  added,  "And 
away  off  there  on  that  hill  is  Pouydraguin — not  quite 
so  musical!" 

As  she  spoke,  she  pointed  to  an  elevated  place  to 
the  southwest,  covered  with  trees,  in  the  midst  of 
which  we  could  just  discern  a  corner  of  an  old 
chateau. 

After  awhile  she  said,  "All  these  villages  on  the 
hills — I  have  sometimes  thought  that  they  almost 
grow  to  seem  like  persons.  One  wonders  why 
Fromentas  remains  so  quiet  in  its  place  yonder — 
why  it  does  not  go  over  and  play  with  Castelnavet, 
when  the  sun  is  so  jolly  and  each  village  so  lonely 
on  its  little  hill.  But  Fromentas  turns  its  back  on 
Castelnavet  and  forever  thinks  its  own  thoughts !" 


A  Conjecture  23 

Before  long  we  went  back  to  the  chestnut  tree  by 
the  gate,  where  Germaine  had  left  her  roses.  I  won 
dered  where  she  was  taking  them;  and  then  I  wished 
I  had  not  asked,  for  I  suddenly  knew  they  were  for 
her  father's  grave. 

"Father  loved  the  roses,'1  she  said. 

Just  as  Germaine  was  leaving,  it  came  to  me  to 
mention  last  night's  procession  of  the  crows  and 
to  ascertain  if  she  saw  it,  and  especially  to  allude  to 
the  fair  American  whom  I  had  noticed  on  the  out 
skirts  of  the  crowd  at  the  dancing. 

For  already  I  had  heard  certain  gossip. 

But  she  said  she  had  been  at  home,  and  had  not 
come  out  at  all. 

As  I  turned  slowly  back  to  my  garden-house,  after 
having  watched  her  walk  away  with  that  free,  grace 
ful  manner  she  has,  I  thought  to  myself, 

"She  looked  downward,  and  seemed  a  little  con 
fused  when  I  mentioned  the  American." 

And  I  could  not  help  wondering;  and  I  shook  my 
head  as  I  sometimes  do  when  something  does  not  en 
tirely  please  me. 


Chapter  IV:  Why  I  Shook  My  Head 

OF  course,  one  does  not  need  any  remarkable 
endowment  of  wit  to  guess  why  I  shook  my 
head.    Germaine's  manner,  when  I  mentioned 
the  American,  suggested  to  me,  who  am  accustomed 
to  judging  human  motives,   an  interest  in  him  of 
which  I  had  known  nothing.     For  I  had  not  even 
seen  this  foreigner  until  the  night  before,  and  I  knew 
little  about  him;  and  this  little  came  only  through 
such  gossip  of  the  village  as  my  Aunt  Madeleine  had 
heard. 

I  am  sure  that  our  village,  for  all  that  it  has  a 
number  of  worthy  young  men,  who  can  drive  their 
oxen  or  ply  their  trade  as  well  as  anybody,  contains 
not  a  single  youth  who  would  ever  think  seriously 
of  aspiring  to  the  heart  of  Germaine  Sance.  Per 
haps  this  is  because  the  World  War  took  away  for 
ever  over  fifty  of  the  best  young  men  of  this  com 
mune.  To  some,  this  isolation  of  hers  might  seem 
pathetic,  but  really,  it  is  not  pathetic  in  the  least. 
For,  while  Germaine  never  avoids  the  presence  of 
young  men,  she  has  never  shown  any  preference  for 
their  society,  much  less  has  she  encouraged  any  one 
of  them  to  suppose  that  he  was  favored.  For  the 

24 


Why  I  Shook  My  Head         25 

plain  fact  is  that  Germaine,  with  her  social  advan 
tage  as  the  daughter  of  Jean-Louis  Sance,  with  her 
inborn  refinement,  her  rare  ideals  of  life,  and  her 
home-bred  culture,  broadened  by  several  years  at 
the  excellent  school  at  Bordeaux,  is  to  these  young 
men  of  Aignan  as  something  entirely  out  of  their 
realm — something  to  admire,  but  not  to  aspire  to 
ward.  This  does  not  mean  that  Germaine  lives  a 
lonely  life — far  from  it.  No  one  in  our  village  has 
more  friends;  and  besides  this,  she  is  interested  in 
many  things,  finding  a  lively  joy  in  them  all:  her 
music,  her  garden,  her  reading,  yes,  and  her  delicate 
filet  lace-making  of  which  she  so  lately  spoke. 

So  I  had  always  felt  that  this  spiritual  child  of 
mine  was,  for  the  time,  safe  from  the  disturbing 
influences  of  the  romantic  passion  that  changes  so 
many  people's  lives,  and,  alas,  not  always  for  the 
best.  And  I  had  rejoiced  in  this.  And  I  knew  that 
if  her  life  was  ever  to  be  disturbed  in  this  way,  it 
would  be  by  some  one  from  the  great  world  outside 
her  native  village.  So  it  is  clear  why  I  was  dis 
quieted  when  Germaine  seemed  embarrassed  at  the 
mention  of  this  tall  and  handsome  stranger,  who, 
gossip  told  me,  had  already  been  seen  at  her  house. 

Now,  if  I  were  writing  a  story  for  people  to  read, 
instead  of  writing  my  reflections  for  my  own  pleas 
ure,  I  would  go  right  on  and  make  a  plot,  in  which 
Germaine  and  the  American  would  be  the  principal 
characters.  I  would  make  them  fall  in  love  with  one 
another,  and  write  pages  of  conversation,  and  leave 
out  tedious  descriptions  and  all  impertinent  medita 
tions,  well  knowing  that  when  most  people  read  a 


26  Abbe  Pierre 

story,  they  skip  such  things  to  find  out  what  is  going 
to  happen  next.  I  wonder  why  authors  are  not  more 
aware  of  this  simple  fact!  I  myself  read  a  story 
lately,  where  the  descriptions  were  beautiful  enough, 
and  the  philosophic  comments  of  the  author  were 
sufficiently  profound,  so  far  as  I  had  the  patience  to 
peruse  them;  but  I  could  not  wait  to  consider  them 
as  much  as  I  ought;  I  was  too  much  interested  to 
know  the  fate  of  the  hero,  Michael  Henchard,  and 
hurried  through  the  tragedy  of  his  rapid  descent 
from  riches  and  honor,  as  Mayor  of  Casterbridge, 
to  that  sad,  sad  ending  of  his  in  the  pauper's  grave. 
And  then  I  tried  to  read  the  book  over  again  for 
just  those  wonderful  descriptions  of  Monsieur 
Hardy,  and  for  his  philosophy;  but  I  had  to  hasten 
through  them  again  because  of  the  overpowering 
interest  of  the  story  itself,  which  still  held  me  fast 
and  would  not  let  me  linger  by  the  way.  I  have  no 
ambition  to  write  such  a  story,  for  I  know  that  I 
could  neither  construct  a  plot  nor  manage  clever 
conversations  with  my  pen — not  in  the  least !  Above 
all,  I  have  not  the  worldly  knowledge  to  write  a 
story  about  love. — Love ! — this  mystery  that  moves 
through  all  the  great  stories  of  mankind  and  sings 
through  its  songs;  this  miracle  that  lives  at  the  heart 
of  the  world's  life  and  assumes  such  Protean  guises 
— what  is  it? 


Chapter  V:  A  Great  Question 

THE  entrance  of  love  into  a  life  greatly  changes 
that  life,  and,  as  I  have  said,  not  always  for 
the  best.     There  are  so  many  kinds  of  love, 
as  anybody  who  knows  human  nature,  or  has  read 
more  than  a  few  romances,  must  admit.    And  of  all 
the  kinds  of  love  there  are,  only  two  are  worthy  of 
a  human  soul ;  and  of  these  two,  only  one  was  meant 
for  me.    And  that  is  why  I  am  a  priest. 

I  thought  it  all  out  when  I  was  still  a  youth — a 
sensitive  youth,  all  on  fire  with  the  poetry  of  life, 
and  with  a  seriousness  of  purpose  far  beyond  my 
short  acquaintance  with  the  world.  And,  at  the  age 
of  nineteen,  I  had  definitely  made  up  my  mind  that 
I  would  never  allow  myself  what  most  men  cherish 
as  the  dearest  thing  our  good  earth  offers.  For,  in 
my  mind,  the  thought  of  love  had  come  to  signify 
more  than  the  love  that  a  man  may  have  for  the 
woman  of  his  heart — vastly  more  than  that,  beau 
tiful  as  such  a  love  may  be  and  has  been,  times  with 
out  number. 

For  it  seemed  to  me  that  whatever  one  truly 
loves,  to  this  must  he  give  his  whole  life,  all  that  he 
is  or  hopes  to  be.  Love,  the  more  I  thought  of  it, 

27 


28  Abbe  Pierre 

meant  the  entire  consecration  of  the  spirit  to  the 
highest  and  greatest  thing  this  world  or  any  world 
may  hold;  truly,  it  meant  nothing  less  than  the  ado 
ration  of  the  soul  for  that  Something,  of  which  all 
lesser  loves  are  but  faulty  symbols  and  suggestions. 
In  those  days,  I  thought  of  mankind  as  treading  a 
long,  long  road,  a  road  that  has  no  ending,  urged 
on  by  the  divine  yearning  that  is  within  each  and 
every  heart;  a  yearning  that  was  never  meant  to 
cease,  yet  which  often  wearies  of  its  search,  or  is 
deluded,  by  the  seductive  cheer  of  the  resting  places 
along  the  way,  to  think  that  the  search  is  over  and 
that  love  has  found  its  very  own  at  last.  Such  a 
resting  place  is  Art,  where  the  poets  and  painters 
and  sculptors  and  musicians  tarry,  to  find  their  love 
fulfilled  forevermore ;  they  go  no  farther,  because  of 
their  deep  wonder  and  delight.  Such  a  resting  place 
is  Truth,  where  the  philosophers  put  down  their 
staffs  and  lay  their  hearts  upon  that  altar  where 
Truth's  candles  burn  unflickering  lights.  And  such 
a  resting  place  is  Woman,  where  a  man  stops  with 
a  sudden  glory  in  his  soul,  his  speech  turned  into 
song;  for  now  all  Beauty,  yea,  and  all  Truth  and 
Goodness  are  found  in  Her  at  last!  Yes,  some  men 
stop  at  one  of  these  places  on  the  soul's  long  high 
way,  and  some  at  another,  such  as  Wealth,  or  Fame; 
but  most  at  that  place  where  Woman  waits  and  Ro 
mance  sings. 

But  for  me,  the  road  seemed  to  stretch  on  and 
on,  far  beyond  the  glory  of  these  things,  into  an 
infinite  distance  whither  love  still  led,  crying  to  me 
not  to  tarry  at  these  lesser  shrines.  For  I  had 


A  Great  Question  29 

learned  to  believe  that  what  the  soul  is  really  seek 
ing  is  much  farther  away  than  most  men  guess,  much 
farther  than  any  of  these  things  men  prize  so  highly. 
And  what  is  this  thing  that  the  soul  really  seeks?  It 
is  that  which  contains  within  itself  all  the  beauty  of 
Woman,  but  purified  of  its  dross;  all  the  sweet  thrill 
of  music,  but  with  its  discords  lost  in  harmonies  too 
vast  for  ears  of  sense;  all  the  dreams  of  the  poets, 
but  come  to  life  in  a  dream  that  is  a  dream  no  more; 
it  is  nothing  less  than  that  Ideal  in  which  live  all 
things  that  Art  ever  meant  in  its  longings,  and  all 
that  Truth  could  have  been  to  the  ages  that  have 
sought  it,  and  despaired  of  finding  it,  but  kept  seek 
ing  it,  none  the  less.  Verily,  it  is  this  infinite  thing 
that  the  soul  calls  out  for,  desiring  no  other  Be 
loved;  the  Ideal,  to  suggest  whose  beatific  goal  exist 
all  dawns,  and  rivers,  and  peaks,  and  skies,  and  stars, 
yes,  and  the  flowers  that  make  death  glorious  with 
their  dying!  Love's  Ideal,  that  contains  all  the 
precious  rooms  of  all  the  inns  that  tempt  to  rest 
along  life's  highway,  transfigured  into  that  House 
of  the  Spirit  whose  towers  are  hid  in  blessed  dim 
ness  and  immortal  mystery. 

I  remember  that  about  this  time  of  my  life  I  hap 
pened  upon  some  sentences  written  in  the  twelfth 
century,  by  Adam,  of  the  Premontre  order: 

In  her  trouble  the  spirit  hath  love  abiding;  but 
she  knows  no  longer  what  it  is  she  loves,  what  she 
ought  to  love.  She  addresseth  herself  to  the  stones 
and  to  the  rocks,  and  saith  to  them,  "What  are  ye?" 
And  the  stones  and  the  rocks  make  answer,  "We  are 


30  Abbe  Pierre 

creatures  of  the  same  even  as  thou  art."  To  the 
like  question  the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stars  make 
the  like  answer.  The  spirit  doth  interrogate  the 
sand  of  the  sea,  the  dust  of  the  earth,  the  drops  of 
rain,  the  days  of  the  years,  the  hours  of  the  days, 
the  moments  of  the  hours,  the  turf  of  the  fields,  the 
branches  of  the  trees,  the  leaves  of  the  branches,  the 
scales  of  fish,  the  wings  of  birds,  the  utterances  of 
men,  the  voices  of  animals,  the  movements  of  bodies, 
the  thoughts  of  minds ;  and  these  things  declare,  all 
with  one  consent,  unto  the  spirit,  uWe  are  not  that 
which  thou  demandest;  search  up  above  us.  .  .  ." 

Thus  it  is  that,  a  youth  of  nineteen,  I  heard  the 
voice  of  the  Ideal,  and  knew  that  to  lose  one's  love 
in  anything  less  meant  the  arrest  and  tragedy  of  the 
soul.  Above  all,  to  lose  one's  love  in  the  adoration 
of  an  earthly  being,  however  beautiful  such  a  love 
might  be,  meant  the  betrayal  of  the  spirit's  quest. 
For  a  Woman,  even  more  than  Art  and  Truth,  if 
loved  truly,  is  ever  thought  of  as  the  one  compelling 
and  absorbing  goal  of  all  one's  love;  yes,  to  the 
lover,  his  beloved  seems  ever  absolute,  "in  herself 
complete,"  demanding  all  devotion,  all  sacrifice,  to 
make  the  love  of  her  that  high  and  worthy  thing  he 
sings.  To  him  there  shall  be,  there  can  be,  nothing 
further.  She  is  all. 

In  those  days,  I  did  not  say  that  there  was  no  place 
at  all  for  such  a  love.  But  from  the  first  it  was 
clearly  not  for  me,  and  it  has  never  been  for  me. 
Not  that  I  may  ever  actually  reach  the  white  purity 
of  that  Ideal  which  out-glories  all,  and  makes  all 
else  fade  into  nothingness  beside  it. 


A  Great  Question  31 

And  that  Ideal,  what  is  it?  I  have  come  to  know 
at  last  that  it  is  what  we  timidly  call  God.  Ah,  love 
is  indeed  divine,  to  find  its  rest  nowhere  but  in  His 
infinite  mystery;  to  say  of  each  thing1  else,  "Not  this, 
not  this,  it  is  still  beyond,  its  glory  still  awaits  you, 
suffer  a  little  longer,  persevere  through  nights  the 
darkest  and  days  most  dreary,  through  loneliness 
and  tears,  all  for  the  love  of  God  that  calls  and  calls 
and  will  not  let  us  rest!" 

It  was  my  conviction  in  those  earlier  days  that 
every  man  has  a  supreme  decision  to  make.  He 
might  choose  the  love  which,  however  beautiful,  ends 
its  glory  with  the  grave,  and  li^es  on  only  in  the 
children  and  children's  children  one  leaves  behind; 
or,  he  might  choose  the  love  that  makes  one  immor 
tal  by  its  own  purifying  fire,  so  that  one  need  not  live 
on  in  earthly  children  born  of  woman.  Humanity 
would  go  on,  I  thought,  losing  itself  in  the  earthly 
love  until,  slowly,  through  the  generations,  a  few 
men,  and  then  more  men,  would  learn,  one  by  one, 
the  diviner  love  of  which  all  earthly  love  is  but  the 
dim  shadow. 

These  reasonings,  I  confess,  were  those  of  my 
dreamy  boyhood,  before  I  knew  better  what  all  these 
things  truly  signify.  But  my  own  great  decision  was 
made.  I  thereafter  dedicated  myself  to  God  and 
His  service.  And  here  I  am  to-day,  an  old  priest, 
treading  that  long,  long  road,  keeping  my  eyes  reso 
lutely  ahead,  still  seeking  to  find  and  be  the  dream 
of  my  boyhood's  heart — which  is  the  inner  dream 
of  the  world ! 

But  on   one  matter  I   have   changed  my  mind. 


32  Abbe  Pierre 

There  is  more  in  the  earthly  love  I  spurned  than  I 
thought,  when  it  is  pure  and  true — oh,  yes,  when  it 
is  as  pure  and  true  as  I  have  sometimes  seen  it! 
Divine  love  is  a  great  and  beautiful  thing,  and  earthly 
love  can  also  be  a  great  and  beautiful  thing.  They 
are  both  great;  and  I  have  learned  that,  in  the  logic 
of  God,  no  great  thing  is  utterly  inconsistent  with 
any  other  great  thing.  Knowing  this,  the  Church 
blesses  the  true  love  of  human  hearts  and  makes  of 
their  marriage  a  holy  sacrament.  My  own  mother  I 
When  I  remember  thee  and  thy  pure  heart,  I  know 
that  in  thy  tender  love  that  brought  me  into  life 
there  is  indeed  more  of  heaven  than  of  earth ! 

I  now  see  that  a  man  and  woman,  pure  in  heart, 
may  tread  together  that  long  road  toward  the  Ideal; 
hand  in  hand  may  they  tread  it,  day  on  day,  year 
on  year,  their  love  made  stronger  by  its  common 
yearning  for  the  dream  that  each  helps  to  keep  alive 
within  the  other's  soul;  finding  in  one  another's  eyes 
something  more  than  earthly  light,  in  each  other's 
speech  something  of  the  music  that  makes  their  steps 
keep  rhythm  with  this  vision  that  they  share.  Lost 
in  each  other  they  are — and  yet  not  lost  in  each 
other;  but,  rather,  saved  through  each  other  to  the 
love  that  transcends  both  of  them;  finding  each  in 
each  the  dim  suggestion  of  the  goal  each  seeks, 
which  somehow  shines  through  one  another's  clay, 
rendering  that  clay  beautiful  and  making  earthly  love 
partake  of  the  divine.  No,  not  alone  must  each  man 
go,  but  blessed  may  he  be  with  such  companionship, 
his  tears  no  longer  bitter  with  their  loneliness,  but 
sweet  as  sorrow  grows  to  be  when  understood  and 


A  Great  Question  33 

shared.  In  Her  he  shall  find,  made  secure  through 
nights  and  days,  the  far  Ideal's  search,  since  through 
her  very  being  it  speaks  to  him  and  will  not  be  de 
nied.  Oh,  God  is  not  merely  at  the  end  of  the  in 
finite  journey — He  is  not  so  far  away  as  that! — 
He  is  sometimes  found  along  the  journey  itself:  in 
Art  in  all  its  myriad  forms;  in  Truth,  yes,  and  in 
Woman,  too,  if  her  love  be  pure  and  her  heart  given 
to  the  holy  things  such  purity  may  know. 

But  how  many  men  and  women  find  the  glory  of 
such  exalted  love?  I  do  not  know.  I  only  know 
that  thousands  of  desolated  hearts,  deceived  by 
earthly  love,  have  come  upon  their  bitter  tragedies; 
that  for  such  love  some  men  have  broken  every  law 
of  God  and  man,  and  lost  their  souls,  betraying  gen 
erations  yet  unborn.  For,  such  pure  love  as  I  have 
written  of  is  not  so  very  common;  and  if  a  poet 
needs  rare  genius  to  forge  great  and  worthy  verse, 
and  if  a  painter  needs  much  genius  to  make  of  form 
and  color  a  thing  of  undying  joy,  so  do  lovers  re 
quire  great  genius  to  live  the  love  that  God  demands 
of  those  who  need  such  love.  And  in  His  wise  de 
sign,  there  are  some  of  us  He  sets  apart  for  the  love 
of  Him  alone,  our  souls  made  single  to  His  service 
evermore. 

So,  now,  it  is  evident  why  I  shook  my  head  about 
Germaine.  It  was  not  merely  that,  knowing  her  in 
nocent  heart,  I  had  always  feared  that  tragedy  might 
some  day  enter  it  disguised  in  the  gracious  garments 
that  Love  wears,  be  he  good  or  bad;  but,  let  it  be 
confessed  that,  long  ago,  ever  since  she  had  learned 
her  catechism  with  that  sweet  piety  which  I  had 


34  Abbe  Pierre 

found  to  be  her  dearest  grace,  I  had  hoped  that  some 
day  she  would  be  led  to  give  her  life  to  that  sister 
hood  of  blessed  women  who  present  their  souls  to 
God  alone  and  know  no  other  love  than  that.  Per 
haps  I  may  be  a  mistaken  old  man,  but  that  is  what  I 
hoped,  and  still  hope,  for  the  soul  of  this  child. 

As  I  sit  here  in  my  garden-house,  looking  out  the 
open  door  across  the  sunlit  vineyard  and  down  to 
where  the  slender  cypress  trees  rise  high  beyond  the 
cemetery  wall,  I  can  just  see  the  top  of  a  tombstone 
over  which  the  roses  climb.  He  who  wanders  there, 
as  I  sometimes  do,  reads  there  this  name:  "Gene- 
vieve  Caussade."  In  my  early  youth  I  surmised, 
through  her  sweet  soul,  what  pure,  unsullied  love 
might  mean,  if  earthly  love  had  been  for  me.  But 
the  long  road  stretched  before  me,  and  I  made  the 
great  decision. 

She  has  been  lying  in  that  grave  for  many  years. 
She  never  married.  The  sunlight  kisses  her  roses  as 
I  write. 


Chapter  VI :  Our  Village 

THIS  morning  I  heard  the  clear  voice  of  a 
neighbor  of  mine  singing  in  his  vineyard  across 
the  road  from  my  garden.    It  was  a  song  about 
a  peasant  girl  and  a  king's  son — a  song  that  every 
body  knows.     I  could  just  catch  the  words  as  they 
floated  across  the  high  hedge: 

Jano  Danoe,  she  goes  to  the  spring,  alone — 

Jano  Danoe; 
Jano  Danoe,  she  goes  and  fills  her  pitcher — 

Jano  Danoe; 
The  son  of  the  king  .  .  . 

I  was  waiting  for  the  rest  of  it,  because  I  like  songs 
that  have  passed  from  lip  to  lip  these  many  cen 
turies,  but  the  singer  had  to  stop  to  shout  at  his  oxen^ 
which  had  gone  amiss  in  their  plowing. 

Sometimes  one's  meditations,  if  they  be  of  the 
subtler  sort,  are  irretrievably  shattered  by  a  little 
thing  like  that — a  song,  the  rattle  of  a  cart,  or  the 
clatter  of  a  wooden  shoe — and  then  it  is  no  use  to 
go  back  to  them,  for  one's  thoughts  have  mysteri 
ously  vanished,  and  try  as  one  may,  they  will  return 

35 


36  Abbe  Pierre 

no  more,  unless  by  happy  chance,  long  afterward. 
At  such  times,  if  one  insists  upon  going  on  with  his 
writing,  from  that  moment  it  becomes  artificial  and 
poor.  The  inspiration  is  gone.  That  is  the  way  it 
was  with  me  this  morning,  when  this  song,  with  its 
abrupt  ending,  broke  in  on  my  musings.  I  remem 
bered,  too,  that  I  had  an  errand  which  took  me  to 
the  town  hall  and  then  to  the  post  office,  so  I  laid 
aside  my  writing,  locked  my  garden-house,  and 
started  toward  the  village. 

From  the  long,  high  ridge  to  the  north,  where  the 
forest  is,  one  can  get  a  good  view  of  Aignan  on  its 
lesser  hill,  across  a  stretch  of  vineyards.  I  have  al 
ways  had  this  view  in  mind  when  I  have  tried  to  de 
scribe  our  village  to  the  Abbe  Rivoire.  At  first 
sight,  the  village  appears  as  a  shapeless  mass  of 
roofs,  huddled  together  from  east  to  west,  helter- 
skelter,  sloping  at  all  angles,  their  tiles,  once  red, 
discolored  by  lichens,  with  here  and  there  the  plas 
tered  walls  gleaming  in  the  sun.  In  the  midst  of  this 
assemblage  of  little  houses  rises  the  old  church  with 
its  rugged  tower — not  a  very  beautiful  tower,  but 
strong  and  defiant,  its  masonry  covered  with  strag 
gling  ivy  and  hundreds  of  tiny,  gray  plants  that  cling 
to  the  countless  crevices  as  though  they  were  memo 
ries  Time  had  given  it  to  keep ! 

Often  I  look  down  from  this  very  hill  and  dream 
how  my  village  looked  in  the  Middle  Ages,  that  time 
which  always  enchants — who  of  us  has  not  had  a 
fleeting  wish  that  he  might  have  lived  in  those  inter 
esting  and  venturesome  days  of  long  ago!  There 
was  poetry  in  the  world  then,  and  nowhere  more 


Our  Village  37 

than  in  these  valleys  of  ours.  Sometimes,  as  I  stand 
on  this  hill  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  the  Aignan 
that  is  to-day  vanishes,  and  the  Aignan  that  was  hun 
dreds  of  years  ago  magically  takes  its  place.  I  then 
see  my  village  with  its  massive  walls  entirely  sur 
rounding  the  closely-built  houses,  assembled  on  one 
short  street,  the  castle  and  church  rising  above  all. 
There  was  the  deep  and  wide  moat  following  the 
walls  all  around.  One  could  enter  only  at  the  two 
great  gates  at  either  end.  The  gate  on  the  east  was 
guarded  by  the  tower  of  the  church,  as  if  the  strength 
of  the  good  God  was  added  to  the  puny  strength  of 
man;  and  the  gate  on  the  west  by  the  heavy,  square 
tower  of  the  donjon-keep,  from  whose  belfry  often 
rang  the  signal  that  enemies  were  approaching,  warn 
ing  everybody  to  take  refuge  within  the  doughty  ram 
parts.  And  when  the  inhabitants  were  all  inside  the 
walls,  and  the  drawbridges  were  up,  and  the  great, 
iron-studded,  oak  gates  were  swung  shut,  and  the 
enormous  bolts  were  shot  into  place,  and  the  four 
heavy  iron  bars,  fitting  deep  into  the  masonry  on 
each  side,  clanged  into  position — ah,  then  the  peo 
ple  of  my  village  were  ready  for  any  foe  !  Once  the 
Protestants  got  in  by  making  a  hole  in  the  wall  when 
a  great  wedding  was  going  on,  and  the  vigilance  was 
relaxed,  but  they  were  frightened  away  in  a  hurry! 
Well,  those  walls  are  gone  now,  but  one  can  still 
see  remnants  of  them  here  and  there.  And  although 
the  village  has  spread  out  a  little  more,  it  is  not  so 
very  different,  after  all.  So,  it  is  easy  to  imagine 
it  as  it  was  in  the  old,  old  days,  with  its  one  narrow, 
badly-paved,  winding  street,  poorly  lighted  at  night; 


38  Abbe  Pierre 

over  which  the  upper  stories  projected  so  far  that 
(my  grandfather  used  to  say)  one  could  reach  out 
and  actually  touch  hands  with  his  neighbor  across 
the  way!  The  street  was  obstructed  still  more  by 
its  cumbrous  signs,  which  sometimes  clattered  down 
in  the  wind,  to  the  great  peril  of  passing  folk;  then, 
to  complete  the  picture,  there  were  the  rows  of  ar 
cades  in  front  of  the  houses;  and  in  the  very  center 
of  all,  the  irregularly-shaped  Place,  littered  with 
carts,  and  alive*  with  chickens  and  geese,  and  long- 
legged  Gascon  pigs,  even  as  to-day! 

Yes,  to-day  it  is  much  the  same  as  then.  The  vil 
lage  has  added  a  street  or  two  since  the  walls  went; 
but  the  same  old  houses  still  stand,  bravely  fronting 
the  same  old,  winding  street;  only,  everything  has 
become  neglected,  and  nothing  is  in  repair.  The 
plaster  on  the  houses  has  grown  yellower,  stained 
with  the  bufferings  of  hundreds  of  winters  and  sum 
mers,  and  it  has  fallen  off  in  places.  What  arcades 
are  left  are  rickety  on  their  rough,  wooden  pillars, 
eaten  thin  and  propped  up  at  the  base  here  and 
there  by  large  stones.  Even  the  church  clock  has 
stopped  since  a  time  nobody  quite  remembers;  its 
hands  forever  point  to  twelve  o'clock — noon  or  mid 
night,  I  know  not  which.  And  how  quaint  and  inter 
esting  and  beautiful  our  village  is,  as  you  see  it  in  the 
morning  light  of  this  new  time !  It  is  as  if  the  waves 
of  the  Middle  Ages  had  washed  up  this  relic  of  its 
life  here  on  Time's  shores.  I  am  glad,  I  am  glad 
that  it  is  so  little  changed,  and  that  the  poetry  of 
another  day  speaks  through  the  peace  of  our  streets, 
still  so  sequestered  from  the  great  world ! 


Our  Village  39 

I  was  on  the  way  to  the  village  when  I  became  lost 
in  these  reflections.  In  our  village,  we  do  not  walk 
on  the  sidewalks ;  no,  everybody  walks  in  the  street, 
for  where  there  are  any  sidewalks  at  all,  they  are 
so  very  narrow,  with  the  houses  set  right  against 
them,  and  are  so  encumbered  with  the  wares  of  the 
little  shops  set  out  for  display,  and  with  benches,  and 
pots  of  flowers,  and  piles  of  firewood,  and  even 
wheelbarrows  and  carts,  that  one  would  tread  a 
very  devious  course  if  he  attempted  them.  This 
morning,  as  I  stepped  into  the  Street  of  the  Church, 
at  the  entrance  of  the  village,  I  heard  the  loud  rat 
tle  of  the  drum  of  the  village  crier,  Victor  Claverie, 
and  saw  him,  as  I  rounded  the  corner,  standing  im 
portantly  in  the  space  before  the  church,  crying  out 
a  proclamation  that,  by  order  of  the  mayor,  the 
price  of  meat  and  milk  had  been  lowered,  and  that 
all  persons  under  twenty-two  must  be  vaccinated. 

I  know  Victor  Claverie  quite  well.  He  is  a  stoop- 
shouldered  man.  His  round  head  is  covered  with 
unruly  hair  surmounted  by  a  little  round  cap,  or 
beret.  His  forehead  is  low,  his  face  colorless,  his 
nose  bulbous  at  the  end,  his  ears  standing  out  en 
tirely  too  much  for  beauty,  his  eyes  very  near 
sighted.  He  always  holds  his  head  a  little  on  one 
side.  I  fear  I  have  not  made  a  flattering  portrait  of 
him,  but  one  could  not  do  that  and  be  truthful.  I 
doubt  that  his  official  eloquence,  as  he  shouts  forth 
his  proclamations,  is  very  convincing;  for  he  has  a 
manner  of  ever  pausing  to  get  his  breath  in  the  midst 
of  a  sentence,  which  breaks  it  up  so  that  it  is  some 
effort  to  piece  the  fragments  together  again  and 


40  Abbe  Pierre 

make  sense.  However,  everybody  is  so  used  to  him 
by  this  time,  and  he  has  seen  such  long  service,  that 
the  authorities  would  never  think  of  appointing  any 
one  else  to  this  important  office.  Through  him  we 
learn  all  the  significant  local  news,  for,  of  course, 
our  village  has  no  such  thing  as  a  newspaper — never 
has  had  and  never  will  have.  They  say  it  was  an 
exciting  time  during  the  World  War,  when  they 
heard  the  rattle  of  his  drum  nearly  every  day.  But 
soon  people  grew  tired  of  putting  his  broken  sen 
tences  together,  and  were  glad  when  the  news  was 
posted  on  the  town  hall,  where  everybody  could  see 
it  and  be  sure  what  it  was. 

As  I  passed  farther  along  the  street,  I  called  a 
hearty  greeting  to  the  pharmacist,  with  his  long, 
white  coat,  just  within  his  door,  and  to  the  baker, 
standing  on  the  steps  in  front  of  his  house,  his  big, 
blue  apron  splashed  with  flour;  and  to  Fitte,  the 
notary,  just  emerging  from  his  home,  the  best- 
dressed  man  in  our  canton.  He  greets  me  with  a 
high-pitched,  husky  voice,  full  of  good  will.  And 
in  the  Place  I  meet  the  postman,  just  starting  on  his 
rounds,  carrying  the  letters  in  his  flat,  leather  box, 
suspended  in  front  of  him  by  straps  from  his  shoul 
ders. 

"Good  morning!  Monsieur  TAbbe,  I  have  a  let 
ter  for  you !" 

When  I  was  coming  out  from  the  post  office, 
after  having  done  my  errand,  I  met  my  friend,  Rigot, 
the  owner  of  the  cafe.  I  have  always  thought  of 
Rigot  as  one  of  the  big  men  of  our  village,  big  in 
body  and  big  in  mind.  A  village  is  made  of  houses 


Our  Village  41 

and  people ;  and  one  knows  well  which  are  the  more 
important!  This  Rigot  owns  a  great  deal  of  land, 
and  has  always  been  the  right-hand  man  of  the 
mayor,  although  he  has  never  been  mayor  himself. 
I  like  Rigot.  He  is  massively  built,  big-boned,  big- 
chested,  with  a  large  head.  He  looks  like  a  judge. 
He  is  wearing  a  short,  scraggly  beard,  but  this  is 
only  because  it  is  Saturday,  and  like  many  of  our 
men,  he  does  not  shave  during  the  week — only  on 
Sunday  mornings,  when  he  appears  a  fine  man  in 
deed,  with  his  black  suit  and  starched  collar.  Nowa 
days  he  keeps  his  cafe  open  not  as  a  business,  but  as 
a  hobby;  and  only  his  chosen  friends  go  there,  as 
they  would  go  to  an  exclusive  club — his  friends,  such 
as  the  doctor,  and  the  notary,  and  the  butcher,  Ba- 
jac,  with  whom  he  plays  his  game  of  bridge  every 
Sunday  afternoon.  Any  one  entering  his  cafe  sees  a 
billiard  table;  but  if  one  should  ask  to  play,  he  would 
be  told  that  there  are  no  balls.  Well,  I  happen  to 
know  that  the  missing  balls  are  hidden  behind  the 
counter,  whence  they  will  never  be  produced  again 
as  long  as  Madame  Rigot  lives.  For  her  son,  who 
loved  nothing  so  well  as  to  play  on  this  very  table, 
never  came  home  from  the  war,  and  sleeps  far  away, 
amid  a  forest  of  wooden  crosses  near  Toul. 

I  left  Monsieur  Rigot  in  front  of  the  village 
pump,  which  makes  a  tremendous  noise  and  requires 
great  effort  for  a  little  water.  It  is  one  of  the  sights 
of  our  village  to  see  the  young  girls  getting  their 
water  there — rosy-cheeked,  buxom,  laughing,  they 
do  not  remind  one  of  the  Middle  Ages  in  the  least! 

So  this  is  our  village,  so  shut  away  from  the  great 


42  Abbe  Pierre 

world  that  it  is  a  world  all  its  own.  Is  it  any  won 
der  that  I  love  its  peace?  In  coming  here,  one  does 
not  feel  so  much  that  he  has  come  to  a  different  part 
of  our  earth  as  that  he  has  left  it  behind  him.  Why, 
our  village  is  so  remote  that  even  a  letter  may  fail 
to  find  us,  unless  the  directions  on  the  envelope  are 
very  exact.  The  one  the  postman  handed  me  this 
morning  had  been  wandering  about  France  for  over 
a  month,  because  the  sender  forgot  to  add  this  dis 
tant  departement  to  our  village's  name!  We  still 
hold  tenaciously  to  our  ancient  customs — our  ancient 
processions,  and  fetes,  and  dances,  and  songs,  and 
dress,  even  our  ancient  speech.  Here  candles  and 
oil  lamps  still  give  a  light  good  enough  for  any  man 
to  see  the  faces  of  his  loved  ones,  as  he  sits  with 
them  about  the  fireplace  of  his  fathers  after  night 
has  come;  here  the  gentle  gossip  of  the  neighbors 
takes  the  place  of  the  theater;  here  oxen  plow  in  the 
fields  or  pull  their  two-wheeled  carts  along  the  road 
as  of  yore;  here  one  travels  many  steps  and  speaks 
face  to  face  with  those  for  whom  he  has  a  message, 
for  there  is  only  one  telephone,  that  at  the  post 
office,  rarely  used  by  common  folk.  So  it  is,  the 
Middle  Ages  are  still  here,  as  I  said,  peacefully  de 
caying,  yet  very  alive  in  good,  old-fashioned  ways. 
For  us  who  live  here,  even  such  universal  things  as 
dawns  and  sunsets  and  moons  and  stars  take  on  a 
local  character  and  seem  to  belong  to  us  alone. 

O  little  village  of  my  birth !  To  you  I  have  come 
as  a  tired  son  comes  back  to  his  old,  old  mother 
after  futile  wanderings.  Your  gentle  peace,  your 
simple  ways,  sweet  as  an  old-loved  song,  I  would 


Our  Village  43 

choose  to  all  the  world  outside.  I  would  rather  be 
poor  here  than  rich  there,  for  here  are  the  riches 
of  the  soul's  ineffable  peace  that  money  never  buys ! 
If  cruelty  sometimes  visits  the  heart  even  here,  it 
is  not  the  cruelty  that  crushes  utterly  and  makes  of 
hope  a  ghastly  mockery,  as  where  great  cities  rise 
and  human  souls  stamp  each  other  out  in  agony  and 
blood.  Here  even  death  seems  kindlier,  for  those 
who  from  your  humble  doors  pass  into  the  valley  of 
shadow  are  laid  to  rest  not  far  away  from  human 
habitation,  as  is  the  wont  in  large  cities,  but  within 
your  very  heart,  beneath  the  gentle  shelter  of  those 
cypress  trees  by  the  old  church  tower,  to  the  tolling 
of  the  dear,  familiar  bell,  there  by  their  fathers  and 
their  fathers'  fathers,  never  far  from  the  thoughts 
of  the  living,  who  go  often  with  the  loving  gift  of 
flowers  to  kneel  beside  a  blessed  memory! 

As  I  returned  from  the  village  and  approached  my 
garden,  I  noticed,  standing  in  front  of  my  gate,  a 
manly  young  fellow,  whom  I  took  to  be  my  young 
friend,  Henri.  With  him  was  a  tall  man,  whom  I 
did  not  know. 


Chapter  VII :  I  Have  Visitors 

I  WAS  glad  enough  to  greet  Henri,  as  I  always 
am,  but  I  cannot  say  that  it  pleased  me  especi 
ally  to  recognize  that  his  companion  was  none 
other  than  the  fair-haired,  beardless  young  man  I 
had  discerned  at  the  edge  of  the  crowd  at  the  danc 
ing  of  the  "crows"  that  night  in  the  Place.  I  do 
not  know  why  I  had  conceived  a  prejudice  against 
this  stranger  from  the  first,  any  more  than  any  one 
can  really  tell  just  why  he  likes  some  people  and  dis 
likes  others  that  are  no  worse.  It  was  not  because 
he  was  an  American,  although  I  must  admit  that 
Americans  have  often  offended  my  instincts,  princi 
pally  because  of  what  I  feel  as  their  aggressive  ego 
tism,  and  a  certain  vociferousness  of  manner  that 
violates  my  milder  mood  and  makes  me  retire  within 
myself.  Also  I,  like  most  of  my  fellow  villagers,  am 
suspicious  of  strangers,  especially  if  they  be  foreign 
ers  ;  and  to  me  this  man  was  so  far  an  utter  stranger, 
with  nothing  to  recommend  him  to  me,  and  that 
foolish  fancy  of  mine  about  Germaine  to  disturb  me 
in  spite  of  myself — strengthened  now  that  I  per 
ceived  him  so  intimate  with  her  brother,  Henri. 
Later,  when  I  come  to  know  more  about  David 

44 


I  Have  Fisitors  45 

Ware,  I  may  revise  my  opinion  of  him.  Indeed, 
even  before  he  left  my  garden  to-day,  I  knew  that 
he  was  not  so  young  as  I  thought,  being  twenty- 
seven  years  old;  that  his  presence  in  Aignan  was 
easily  accounted  for  by  an  ailing  sister,  brought  here 
to  the  south  of  France  for  her  health  by  her  Eng 
lish  husband,  who  has  actually  purchased  the  ancient 
Chateau  de  Lasalle,  hidden  in  the  trees  on  a  hill  a 
short  half  mile  from  the  village.  It  turns  out  that 
Monsieur  Ware  is  with  them  for  awhile;  that  he  has 
been  given  his  degree  at  the  University  of  Harvard; 
and  that  he  is  this  very  autumn  to  start  his  teaching 
of  English  literature  at  a  college  in  the  middle  west 
of  America.  It  is  true  that  I  had  heard  some  of 
these  things  as  vague  rumors  before,  but  there  is  so 
much  gossip  in  our  village  that  one  can  never  be  sure. 

But  I  did  not  know  all  this  when  I  came  up  to 
Henri  and  his  friend  at  my  garden  gate,  and,  as  I 
frankly  say,  I  was  prejudiced,  and  was  almost  sorry 
that  I  had  been  the  means  of  teaching  Henri  enough 
English  that  he  would  naturally  be  the  one  most 
likely  to  become  acquainted  with  the  first  English- 
speaking  person  who  should  happen  into  our  village, 
since  no  one  else  here  except  myself  can  manage  that 
difficult  tongue. 

When  I  had  unlocked  my  garden  gate  to  let  my 
visitors  enter,  Henri  turned  straight  toward  the  gar 
den-house,  as  was  natural,  for  we  have  had  many  a 
talk  together  here,  and  I  imagine  that  he  had  told 
his  new  friend  about  my  study  and  wanted  him  to 
see  it  for  himself.  But  somehow  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  reveal  to  a  stranger  the  privacy  of  this 


46  Abbe  Pierre 

place,  so  intimately  associated  with  my  innermost 
life;  and  so,  to  Henri's  surprise,  I  led  right  on,  up 
the  narrow  path  by  the  vineyard,  to  the  bench  under 
the  fig  tree,  where  I  bade  my  guests  be  seated  and 
enjoy  the  view.  As  for  Monsieur  Ware,  he  pro 
duced  a  cigarette  and  tried  to  light  it  with  one  of 
our  French  matches,  remarking  as  he  waited  for  the 
slow  sulphur  to  sputter  itself  into  a  flame, 

"Even  the  matches  of  your  country  are  leisurely." 

"That  may  be  a  symbol,"  I  said,  "of  French  and 
American  ways — an  American  cigarette  and  a  French 
match  are  hardly  made  for  each  other;  and  I  sup 
pose  that  there  may  be  other  incompatibilities,  as 
between  any  peoples  so  different." 

"We  are  not  so  different  as  you  think,"  he  replied 
good-naturedly.  "For  instance,  Henri  here  has  been 
apologizing  all  the  way  to  your  garden  because  I 
had  come  upon  him  wearing  an  old  suit  that  had 
shrunk  from  much  washing.  You  see  the  trousers 
are  a  little  short.  But  when  I  told  him  that  it  is  all 
the  fad  for  American  college  students  to  wear  their 
trousers  that  way,  he  seemed  to  think  they  were  not 
so  bad  after  all!" 

I  said  nothing  whatever  to  this,  so  he  went  on 
presently,  clasping  his  hands  about  one  knee  and 
leaning  back  against  the  fig  tree,  puffing  a  cloud  of 
smoke  from  his  cigarette, 

"I  am  not  complaining  of  the  leisureliness  of  the 
life  here,  Monsieur  1'Abbe;  I  rather  like  it.  I  have 
felt  since  coming  here  somewhat  as  the  lotus-eaters 
in  Tennyson's  poem.  It  is  a  land  in  which  it  seems 
always  afternoon — where  even  the  beating  of  one's 


I  Have  Fisitors  47 

heart  makes  music  in  one's  ears;  and  I  am  almost 
tempted  to  the  decision  of  those  same  lotus-eaters, 
to  roam  no  longer,  to  return  no  more." 

At  this  I  said  to  myself,  "Blessed  be  our  ignor 
ance,  for  it  maketh  conversation."  For  I  do  not 
agree  that  my  Gascony,  in  spite  of  the  soft  air  and 
the  quiet,  rolling  hills,  is  such  as  induces  the  intel 
lectual  quiescence  of  the  eaters  of  the  lotus,  whether 
they  be  Tennyson's  or  anybody  else's.  No,  I  hold 
that  one  has  thoughts  in  Aignan,  and  very  effective 
thoughts,  too,  not  mere  indolent  dreams  and  lazy 
reveries  such  as  I  conceived  Monsieur  Ware  to  be 
making  inseparable  from  our  country.  The  peace 
of  the  spirit  is  here,  indeed,  but  it  is  a  peace  that 
stimulates  the  thoughts  that  are  the  very  soul  of 
living,  and  living  greatly.  We  Gascons  do  not 
merely  dream  our  lives  away  here,  leisurely  as  every 
thing  is,  including  our  matches !  But  Americans  al 
ways  seem  to  think  that  unless  one  is  bustling  about 
all  the  time,  one  is  doing  nothing.  I  say  that  some 
of  the  best  deeds  that  I  have  ever  done  have  been 
the  thoughts  I  have  lived  through  in  this  same  old 
garden  by  the  white  road,  where  wooden  shoes  go 
up  and  down. 

But  I  said  none  of  this  to  Monsieur  Ware,  confi 
dent  that  he  would  not  understand  it.  While  he 
was  talking,  I  had  been  studying  him,  as  is  my  wont. 
He  looked  well  enough,  I  had  to  admit.  He  was 
tall,  and  athletic  of  frame.  He  was  dressed  in 
careless  fashion,  with  a  white  negligee  shirt,  open 
at  the  throat,  a  loose-fitting,  blue  coat,  and  trousers 
of  the  same  color.  His  face,  surmounted  by  way- 


48  Abbe  Pierre 

ward  hair  that  grew  a  little  long,  was  undeniably 
strong  and  handsome  in  an  intellectual  way;  and  his 
blue  eyes  seemed  to  have  two  moods  within  them — 
one  revealed  when  he  looked  straight  at  me  with  a 
frank  and  smiling  candor,  and  the  other  when  he 
narrowed  them  to  a  dreamy  contemplation  that 
looked  beyond  visible  things  to  some  distant  purpose 
unconfessed.  I  began  to  put  him  down  somewhat 
more  of  a  poet  than  the  Americans  that  I  have  so 
far  met. 

"You  like  our  Aignan,  then,"  I  said,  more  to  be 
polite  than  anything  else. 

"Immensely !  Think  of  playing  billiards  in  one  of 
your  little  cafes  with  a  real  bull-fighter !  'Le  Suisse' 
I  believe  he  is  called.  I  beat  him,  too,  by  three 
points.  I  must  see  him  when  he  appears  at  one  of 
the  fetes  around  here.  By  the  way,  these  fetes  of 
yours ! — and  your  market  on  Mondays,  and  your 
peasants  that  clatter  around  in  their  wooden  shoes, 
with  their  red  sashes  and  funny,  little  hats;  and 
your  religious  processions,  too,  and  your  'crows' — 
why,  if  some  of  my  friends  should  get  on  to  this, 
they  would  make  a  book  of  it!" 

What  Monsieur  Ware  said  reminded  me  to  ask 
him  if  he  did  any  writing,  though  I  well  know  that 
those  who  teach  literature  seldom  produce  any  liter 
ature  of  their  own. 

Immediately  he  had  answered,  I  knew  that  a  pre 
vious  surmise  of  mine  was  correct,  for  he  said,  laugh 
ingly, 

"I  have  a  volume  of  poems  ready  for  the  press; 
all  I  need  now  is  one  or  two  really  good  ones  to 


I  Have  Visitors  49 

make  it  go!"  And  then  he  added,  "Perhaps  I  shall 
find  those  poems  here.  No  wonder  that  your  peo 
ple  have  the  note  of  beauty  in  them,  living  where 
there  is  so  much  beauty.  In  America,  we  lose  the 
poet's  mood — the  mood  that  does  not  take  anything 
for  granted,  but  looks  upon  everything  as  though  it 


were  new." 


After  a  pause,  he  went  on,  dreamily,  "What  is 
to  be  dreaded  is  the  sight  that  becomes  accustomed, 
and  no  longer  wonders.  The  poet  looks  at  that 
cloud,  which  hundreds  perceive  as  well  as  he,  but  he 
sees  it  with  the  enraptured  vision  of  a  child.  Here, 
in  these  valleys,  shut  away  from  civilization,  my 
sense  of  wonder  is  coming  back  to  me." 

"What  do  you  say,  Henri?"  I  inquired,  because 
Henri  had  been  saying  not  one  word,  being  puz 
zled  by  the  English  of  our  guest,  which,  I  suspected, 
was  a  little  too  rapid  for  his  ear;  even  I  found  it 
difficult,  for  I  read  English  much  more  than  I  con 
verse  in  it,  lacking  opportunities. 

Finally,  Henri  found  his  tongue  and  diffidently 
remarked, 

"Monsieur  Ware  has  some  unusual  ideas  about 
Gascony — I  mean,  our  people." 

"I  talk  too  much,  I  guess !  I  know  so  little  about 
your  people !  My  sister  agrees  with  me  that  your 
women — especially  your  young  women — are  wonder 
ful.  Now,  in  England,  I  saw  many  women  to  ad 
mire — tall,  slender  women  of  the  willowy  type,  some 
what  like  those  Burne-Jones  idealizes;  the  spiritual 
kind,  of  whom  one  might  say  that  their  bodies  are 
stems,  and  their  faces  are  lilies.  But  your  French 


50  Abbe  Pierre 

girls,  especially  down  here — well,  they  are  more  real, 
they  are  more  human,  they  are  more  truly  women, 
while  yet  seeming  to  possess  all  the  spirituality  that 
one  can  healthily  have  in  a  real  world." 

I  wondered  if  Monsieur  Ware  was  thinking  of 
Germaine ! 

It  was  becoming  cloudy,  and  my  fig  tree  is  no 
very  great  protection  from  rain,  so  we  wandered 
back  toward  the  garden  gate. 

I  remarked  that,  down  here  in  Gascony,  we  are 
used  to  the  smiling  side  of  nature;  that  the  sunless 
days  probably  affect  our  moods  more  than  they  do 
the  people  of  other  countries. 

I  was  surprised  to  hear  Monsieur  Ware  remon 
strate  that  we  were  wrong  in  that.  He  said  that 
he  himself  was  very  fond  of  the  cloudy,  sunless  days, 
because  there  seems  to  be  more  meaning  and  mys 
tery  in  them.  He  thought  that  "a  quantity  of  mere 
sunshine  spread  all  around"  seemed  cheaper  and 
more  superficial.  Besides,  its  gayety  seemed  to  mock 
at  the  tragedy  of  life. 

"It  is  inappropriate  for  God  to  throw  a  broad 
smile  over  the  world,  when  people  are  suffering  and 
dying." 

I  said  nothing  to  this  blasphemous  remark. 

It  is  a  pleasant  habit  in  our  village  to  accompany 
one's  visitors  for  a  distance  down  the  road  before 
finally  saying  good-by.  I  have  always  consid 
ered  it  a  beautiful  walk  from  my  garden  down  to 
the  entrance  of  the  village,  and  I  was  glad  to  see 
that  Monsieur  Ware  was  admiring  the  tall  hedges, 
softly  green,  that  border  my  road.  Upon  my  re- 


I  Have  Visitors  51 

marking  that  Nature  builds  our  fences  for  us,  here 
in  Gascony,  he  told  about  a  man  he  knew  in  Amer 
ica  who  built  a  spite-fence  between  his  house  and 
that  of  his  neighbor,  whom  he  hated. 

"He  made  it  as  ugly  as  he  could.  But  Nature 
grew  vines  all  over  it,  by  and  by.  And  now  it  is  the 
most  beautiful  fence  in  the  town !" 

I  am  back  in  my  garden-house,  and  the  rain  is 
playing  a  lively  tune  on  the  tiles  over  my  head. 

I  must  confess  that  this  American  is  interesting. 

What  impassive  faces  Americans  have,  compared 
with  us  Frenchmen!  For  instance,  Monsieur  David 
Ware  does  not  move  his  lips  much  when  he  talks. 

I  should  say  that  Monsieur  Ware  has  a  kind  face. 


Chapter  VIII:  They  Call  Us  Provincial 

I  HAVE  written  that  I,  like  most  of  my  fellow- 
villagers,  am  suspicious  of  strangers.  There 
are  several  reasons  for  this,  none  of  which  may 
be  justified.  But  the  whole  matter  raises  a  question 
over  which  I  have  pondered  considerably,  and  for 
which,  at  last,  I  have  found  a  sort  of  answer. 

Of  course,  for  one  thing,  strangers  do  not  happen 
among  us  very  often,  since  we  are  remote  from  the 
chief  highways  of  travel.  The  principal  road  near 
here  is  the  one  from  Bayonne  to  Toulouse,  just  dis 
tant  enough  to  make  it  negligible  so  far  as  our  daily 
lives  are  concerned. 

But  the  real  reason  for  our  attitude  toward 
strangers  is  that  when  one  of  them  does  come  among 
us,  he  is  apt  to  make  us  feel  that  he  looks  down 
upon  us  as  a  people  to  be  pitied,  because  we  are  so 
far  removed  from  the  larger  world  without,  and 
know  little  about  it,  and  seem  to  care  less.  I  cheer 
fully  admit  that  we  are  indeed  shut  away  from  what 
men  call  civilization,  and  I  have  spoken  of  the  quiet 
peace  of  these  hills  and  the  old-fashioned  ways  of 
our  ancient  village  as  a  glory  and  a  joy.  But  this, 
which  I  have  mentioned  as  a  virtue,  the  strangers 

52 


They  Call  Us  Provincial         53 

who  visit  us  speak  of  as  a  positive  demerit,  and — 
in  short — they  call  us  provincial. 

Rightly  or  wrongly,  I  felt  this  same  attitude  in 
Monsieur  Ware.  He  compared  us  to  eaters  of  the 
lotus,  as  if  we  lived  only  in  a  remote  land  of  dreams, 
and  were  excluded  from  the  pulsing  life  of  real  men 
and  women,  such  as  dwell  in  great  places  like  Lon 
don  and  Paris.  There,  people  boast  of  that  grand 
word,  "cosmopolitan,"  which  I  am  made  to  under 
stand  is  the  very  opposite  of  being  provincial,  as  we 
lesser  folk  in  Aignan  are ! 

I  sometimes  think  that  most  of  the  arguments  that 
human  beings  invent  against  their  kind  are  not  much 
more  than  calling  one  another  opprobrious  names, 
after  the  fashion  of  little  children.  And  the  trouble 
is  that  most  of  us  so  hate  to  be  called  a  name  that  we 
get  angry  straightway,  and  merely  use  some  other 
epithet,  just  as  futile,  on  our  enemies.  When  I  was 
younger,  I  was  very  prone  to  do  this  myself.  But 
I  have  since  learned  to  look  at  things  more  dispas 
sionately,  and  so,  when  people  call  us  provincial,  I 
simply  ask  myself  what  they  mean,  and  if,  after  all, 
they  are  talking  sense. 

Because  one  has  not  traveled  a  great  deal,  and 
has  not  come  in  contact  with  many  sorts  of  peoples 
and  customs,  does  not  necessarily  make  one  pro 
vincial.  Some  of  the  narrowest  and  most  opinionated 
people  I  have  met  are  those  who  have  dwelt  in 
large  cities,  and  have  wandered  to  and  fro  over  the 
earth's  surface  until  it  almost  makes  one  giddy  to 
think  of  their  comings  and  goings !  On  the  other 
hand,  I  have  read  about  very  great  men  whom  no 


54  Abbe  Pierre 

one  would  call  provincial,  and  yet  who  never  lived 
in  great  cities  at  all,  and  certainly  never  traveled  far 
from  the  little  village  that  gave  them  birth. 

The  fact  is,  there  may  be  two  very  different  kinds 
of  provincialism;  and  any  one  with  any  discernment 
whatever  can  readily  tell  which  is  the  worse.  There 
is  the  provincialism  of  outer  experience,  on  the  one 
hand — the  provincialism  of  the  man  who  has  been 
denied  the  opportunity  of  getting  acquainted  with 
the  great  world  by  actually  roaming  over  it  and  com 
ing  in  contact  with  its  many-sided  life;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  there  is  what  I  call  the  provincialism  of 
the  spirit,  which  means  poverty,  and  littleness,  and 
narrowness  of  the  inner  life.  And  one  may  have 
the  first  without  having  the  second,  and  the  second 
is  more  to  be  feared — far  more — than  the  first,  for 
the  first  is  superficial,  but  the  second  reaches  to  the 
deepest  currents  of  a  man's  very  life!  One's  soul 
may  be  indeed  narrow  and  provincial,  although  one 
has  a  cosmopolitan  body  that  has  traveled  far  and 
wide;  and  one  may  have  a  body  whose  eyes  have 
never  seen  beyond  the  dawns  and  sunsets  of  his  na 
tive  valley,  and  yet  have  a  soul  whose  home  is  no 
less  than  the  infinite  universe !  The  cosmopolitanism 
of  the  body,  and  the  cosmopolitanism  of  the  spirit — 
take  your  choice  !  Happy  is  he  who  can  have  both ! 

Here  in  Aignan,  we  do  not  have  both.  We  are 
not  "citizens  of  the  world,"  nor  are  we  free  from 
local  attachments,  and  even  prejudices.  Ours  is  the 
provincialism  of  the  body,  the  provincialism  of  outer 
experience.  And  yet  I  sometimes  wonder  if  even  this 
is  so.  In  a  city  like  Paris,  one  indeed  touches  life  in 


They  Call  Us  Provincial         55 

its  cosmopolitan  many-sidedness,  if  one  has  a  mind 
to — but  how  many  actually  do  it?  How  many, 
rather,  even  in  that  great  city,  are  compelled  to  in 
close  their  lives  in  the  little,  narrow  routine  of  busi 
ness,  of  shop,  or  office,  or  factory,  from  morning 
to  night,  through  year  on  year,  only  eating  and  sleep 
ing  the  rest  of  the  good  time !  How  many  Parisians 
are  really  cosmopolites,  citizens  of  the  world,  touch 
ing  life  in  its  breadth,  in  its  infinite  variety?  How 
provincial  these  Parisians  are,  after  all — even  in 
their  experiences!  And  all  the  more  provincial* 
because  even  the  broadest  of  them  tends  to  be  ego 
tistically  self-contained,  and  contemptuously  excludes 
the  rest  of  the  world  as  beneath  his  notice.  Here 
in  the  country,  we  are  surely  more  humble  and  open- 
minded,  and  so,  really,  the  less  provincial.  We  look 
upon  Paris  with  much  respect,  and  some  awe,  and 
listen  for  the  echoes  of  its  life;  but  who  in  Paris 
thinks  of  our  far-off  Gascony  with  that  same  humil 
ity,  or  cares  for  the  more  subtle  messages  of  its  hills 
and  valleys  ?  And,  after  all,  is  not  provincialism  just 
such  an  attitude  of  mind,  that  shuts  itself  up  in  its 
own  little  experiences,  and  considers  all  the  rest  as 
if  it  were  not?  So  I  insist  that  the  provincialism 
of  the  Parisian  is  often  worse  than  the  provincialism 
of  us  simple  Gascon  folk. 

As  I  say,  I  am  not  sure  that  we  here  are  so  pro 
vincial  even  in  our  every-day  breadth  of  experience. 
Our  life  is  not  so  narrow  as  one  might  think.  True, 
we  do  not  come  in  contact  with  vast  numbers  of  dif 
ferent  people  and  customs  along  our  quiet  streets, 
but  we  have  the  endless  diversity  of  the  nature  that 


56  Abbe  Pierre 

surrounds  us,  which  may  well  make  up  for  it,  and 
which  the  cosmopolite  of  the  city  knows  little  or  noth 
ing  about.  Can  a  man  be  said  to  be  provincial  who 
communes  with  the  countless  stars,  with  sunsets  no 
two  the  same,  with  hills  that  speak,  with  winding 
roads  that  beckon,  and  with  villages  here,  there, 
everywhere,  each  with  its  own  past  and  its  own  in 
timate  griefs  and  joys — and  yonder  the  glory  of  the 
Pyrenees,  loftier  and  grander  than  anything  men 
ever  build  in  cities?  Our  lives  are  not  so  narrow! 
And  here,  too,  we  have  more  time  and  the  more 
likely  mood  for  reflection  upon  the  deeper  realities 
no  man  sees,  summed  up  in  the  blessed  reality  called 
God!  City  life  easily  disintegrates  character;  there 
are  so  few  times  when  one  can  be  still  and  think, 
comparing  relentlessly  and  fearlessly  to-day's  deed 
with  yesterday's  ideal.  There  can  be  few  sublime 
virtues  without  many  sublime  silences.  I  say  we 
touch  more  points  in  the  universe  than  do  your 
boasted  dwellers  in  cities.  He  is  provincial  indeed 
who  knows  not  the  wonder  and  the  manifold  beauty 
of  the  life  that  one  can  live  here. 

Of  course  we  have  our  stubborn  customs,  handed 
down  since  the  night  of  time;  but  if  our  usages  are 
old,  and  hard  to  change — well,  there  is  always  the 
poetry  that  belongs  to  old  things  as  to  nought  else. 
And,  besides,  because  our  customs  are  different  from, 
say,  those  of  Paris,  does  that  make  them  any  nar 
rower?  For  instance,  does  one  cease  to  be  provin 
cial  merely  because  he  uses  an  electric  light?  I  can 
read  the  golden  thoughts  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  or, 
better,  the  blessed  reasonings  of  St.  Thomas,  just  as 


They  Call  Us  Provincial         57 

well  by  my  oil  lamp  as  by  any  light  that  ever  shone 
upon  a  page !  Aignan  is  provincial — and  yet,  so  dif 
ferent  !  So,  how  it  divests  one  of  provincialism  for 
one  who  has  never  walked  its  streets  to  be  here !  I 
am  tempted  to  say  that  if  the  veriest  cosmopolite 
that  has  ever  lived  has  left  out  my  Gascony,  he  is 
still  provincial!  I  do  not  say  it,  but  I  am  tempted 
to  say  it. 

The  truth  is,  I  think  that  one  can  be  too  much  of 
a  cosmopolite,  in  the  sense  in  which  people  com 
monly  speak  of  such  things.  Your  citizen  of  the 
world,  who  is  at  home  in  every  place,  is  likely  to 
miss  life's  deeper  loyalties.  Having  been  weaned 
from  any  downright  devotion  to  his  native  village, 
to  his  native  customs,  even  to  his  native  country, 
calling  it  the  narrow  patriotism  of  the  circumscribed, 
he  is  in  danger  of  losing  also  his  loyalty  to  the  right, 
as  being  a  matter  of  mere  place  and  circumstance — 
which  finally  may  mean  losing  loyalty  to  oneself  and 
to  one's  God.  And  the  man  who  has  lost  the  deep 
loyalties  of  the  spirit  in  the  cynical  indifference  that 
is  so  often  bred  by  much  contact  with  the  world 
becomes  a  provincial  of  the  spirit,  touching  no  longer 
those  boundless  mysteries  that  are  life  indeed.  That 
my  fellow-villagers  resent  innovation  may  be  an  evi 
dence  of  great  strength,  rather  than  of  weakness. 
Such  provincialism  as  is  ours  has  its  recompense :  we 
do  not  lose  our  faith  in  the  eternal  verities  so  easily. 

In  what  I  have  said,  I  do  not  mean  to  deny  that 
many  people  in  our  village  are  in  fact  provincial. 
No,  I  admit  it,  and  I  admit  it  with  regret.  But  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  such  would  be  provincial,  even 


58  Abbe  Pierre 

if  they  lived  in  Paris,  except  in  very  superficial  ways. 
I  doubt  if  our  village  crier,  Victor  Claverie,  would 
change  much  anywhere  you  put  him,  or  even  the  old 
Abbe  Castex,  or,  for  that  matter,  my  Aunt  Made 
leine.  But  I  know  of  others  who  have  lived  in  this 
village  all  their  lives  who  were  great  cosmopolites 
of  the  spirit.  Such  was  the  father  of  Germaine 
Sance;  such  is  old  Marius  Fontan,  our  dreamer  and 
poet;  such  is  Rigot,  the  proprietor  of  the  cafe,  and 
Bajac,  the  butcher;  and  certainly,  such  is  Dr.  Dous- 
set,  our  genial  mayor,  whom  a  few  of  us  who  know 
him  best  affectionately  call,  "the  little  doctor." 

As  for  myself,  I  have,  of  course,  no  right  to  say. 
I  am  not  a  provincial  in  experience,  since  I  have  been, 
in  Paris  and  London.  But  whether  I  am  a  provin 
cial  of  the  spirit,  I  leave  that  to  my  friends  to  judge 
— not  to  Monsieur  Ware. 


Chapter  IX:  How  I  Went  to  Margouet 

THE  next  day  after  Monsieur  Ware's  visit  to 
my  garden,  just  after  I  was  through  mass  at 
the  church,  I  was  walking  slowly  back  to  my 
house  when  I  met  Germaine's  brother,  Henri,  com 
ing  from  the  center  of  the  village.  As  he  was  hur 
rying  towards  me  down  the  middle  of  the  street,  I 
thought  what  a  fine-looking,  stalwart  lad  he  had 
grown  to  be — tall,  broad-shouldered,  his  frank,  boy 
ish  face  suddenly  brightened  with  a  smile  as  he 
caught  sight  of  me.  We  met  just  beneath  the  sabot- 
maker's  sign,  which  is  a  big,  wooden  shoe  jutting 
out  over  the  street. 

I  noticed  that  Henri  had  a  letter  in  his  hand,  and 
I  exclaimed  that  surely  the  mail  had  not  arrived 
yet. 

And  then  he  told  me  that  the  document  he  bore 
(it  had  a  seal  on  it)  had  been  brought  by  a  postman 
from  the  neighboring  village  of  Margouet.  This 
postman  has  to  come  to  Aignan  every  morning  to 
get  the  mail  for  his  village,  so  he  sometimes  serves 
his  friends  by  bringing  letters,  which  thereby  escape 
the  formality  of  going  through  the  post  office — which 
is  useful,  since  it  saves  a  stamp. 

It  happens  that  Henri  is  the  proud  correspondent 

59 


60  Abbe  Pierre 

of  a  daily  journal  in  Bordeaux,  which,  at  long  inter 
vals,  prints  very  brief  news  from  our  corner  of  the 
world,  if  it  is  important  enough.  This  explains  why 
the  Margouet  people  had  sent  him  the  document, 
which  he  hastened  to  show  me : 

MAIRIE 

DE 
MARGOUET-MEYMES 

For  the  first  time  since  the  hostilities,  the 
Commune  of  Margouet-Meymes  will  celebrate 
the  fete  of  the  anniversary  of  the  patron  saint 
of  the  Commune,  on  the  I2th  and  I3th  of  June. 
We  hope  that  henceforth  it  will  be  the  same,  and 
we  desire  it  with  all  our  heart,  for  the  mainte 
nance  of  the  Sacred  Union.  If  the  good 
weather  is  with  us,  the  strangers,  to  whom  the 
best  welcome  will  be  reserved,  will  come  in 
great  numbers,  and  they  will  be  able  to  enjoy 
themselves  to  their  hearts'  content. 

And  then  followed  the  program  of  the  fete,  and 
the  approval  of  the  Maire,  with  the  impress  of  his 
official  seal. 

Rightly  to  appreciate  a  document  like  this,  one 
remembers  that  Margouet  is  a  little  village,  with 
only  a  few  houses  clustered  about  its  church  on  a 
hill  to  the  northeast.  The  whole  commune,  includ 
ing  several  kilometers  all  around,  contains  at  the 
most  only  about  five  hundred  souls.  So  I  could  read 
ily  understand  why  Henri  was  smiling  when  he 
showed  me  this  announcement;  and  I  could  not  help 


How  I  Went  to  Margouet         61 

smiling  a  little  myself  to  think  that  little  Margouet- 
Meymes  should  put  on  airs  in  this  way,  as  if  it  were 
an  important  village,  say  like  Aignan,  which  has  a 
real  fete  every  year  which  people  come  to  see  from 
all  the  country  round.  As  if  a  fete  like  this  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  Sacred  Union,  by  which 
name  we  called  the  union  of  our  political  parties 
during  the  World  War!  The  mayor  must  have 
smiled  when  he  signed  his  Vu  et  approuve  to  this 
document,  for  the  mayor  at  Margouet  is  an  intelli 
gent  man,  with  a  good  sense  of  proportion. 

PROGRAM  OF  THE   FETE 

SATURDAY 

6-7  P.M.     Artillery  salutes,  announc 
ing  the  Fete. 

SUNDAY 

6:00  A.M.     Artillery  salutes. 
10:00  A.M.     Parade. 

10:30  A.M.     Mass,  with  music  by  the  Band. 
11:30  A.M.     Aperitif  Concert.    Salutes. 
3  :  oo    P.M.     Vespers,  with  music  by  the 

Band. 

4:00  P.M.     Sports:     Duck   race;   The 
Frying   Pan   Game;   Sack 
Races;  Bicycle  Races. 
5  :  30   P.M.     Ascension  of  a  Superb  Bal 
loon,  "Le  Victorieux." 
6:  oo   P.M.     Ball  and  Aperitif  Concert. 
8:00   P.M.     Illumination  a  Glorno. 
9  :  oo   P.M.     Fire-works. 
10:00  P.M.     Grand  Ball.  Brilliant  orchestra. 


62  Abbe  Pierre 

But  it  is  when  one  reads  this  program  which  was 
appended  to  the  announcement,  and  which  I  saw 
later  on  a  large,  red  poster  in  front  of  our  own 
town  hall,  that  one's  smile  is  very  lucky  if  it  remains 
only  a  smile.  I  came  upon  the  apothecary's  assist 
ant  as  he  was  gazing  at  it,  only  half  an  hour  after  I 
left  Henri.  It  must  have  been  brought  from  Mar- 
gouet  by  the  same  postman.  I  copied  it  to  send  to 
the  Abbe  Rivoire  for  his  amusement. 

Artillery  salutes  indeed!  One  knows  that  there 
are  no  cannon  in  Margouet,  and  that  they  will  use 
merely  bombes,  or  giant  firecrackers,  which,  after 
all,  will  make  enough  noise  to  be  heard  quite  a  dis 
tance,  if  the  wind  is  right.  As  for  the  "parade," 
that  merely  means  that  the  band  (probably  four  or 
five  members),  will  walk  up  the  road  to  the  church, 
playing,  together  with  any  who  happen  to  join  them, 
which  will  not  be  many,  since  most  of  the  villagers 
will  have  gone  to  the  church  already.  And  as  for 
the  "Aperitif  Concert"  there  is  no  cafe  in  Margouet, 
so  I  do  not  know  how  they  will  arrange  that,  though 
I  am  sure  they  will  manage  such  an  important  mat 
ter  somehow.  Any  one  who  knows  the  world  would 
be  likely  to  suspect  that  this  ambitious  program  was 
copied  outright  from  the  fete  of  some  large  city  like 
Tarbes;  for  Margouet  to  assume  it  is  like  a  little 
wren  trying  to  comport  itself  as  an  imperial  eagle ! 

And  yet  I  was  soon  to  perceive  that  they  were 
really  trying  to  make  something  of  the  fete,  for 
when  the  postman  made  his  rounds  down  our  street, 
he  brought  me  a  letter  from  the  good  old  Abbe  Pre- 
chac,  the  priest  at  Margouet,  inviting  me  over  to 


How  I  Went  to  Margouet        63 

assist  him  at  the  mass  and  vespers  on  the  Sunday 
of  the  fete,  now  only  three  days  off.  He  also  said 
that  if  I  would  only  come,  he  would  send  the  black 
smith,  Lartigue,  with  his  cart  to  fetch  me. 

I  hastened  to  accept  this  invitation  for  two  rea 
sons  :  first,  because  I  like  the  old  Abbe  Prechac,  who 
is  a  native  of  these  parts,  and  knows  much  of  the 
fascinating  lore  of  Gascony;  and,  second,  because  I 
was  curious  to  see  what  Margouet  would  really  make 
of  its  fete  in  honor  of  its  patron,  St.  Barnabe,  whose 
accurate  anniversary,  by  the  way,  is  to-morrow,  two 
days  before  the  fete.  Another  reason,  and  perhaps 
the  one  that  most  moved  me,  is  that  the  little  church 
at  Margouet  is  after  my  own  heart,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  it  is  badly  in  need  of  repair.  I  admire  its 
sturdy,  square  tower,  windowless,  and  buttressed 
like  a  fortress;  its  low  porch,  with  benches,  out  of 
whose  broken  stone  floor  the  pink  hollyhocks  grow 
tall  in  summer,  and  which  you  brush  as  you  would 
brush  a  fellow-worshiper  as  you  enter;  the  long 
ferns,  too,  that  flauntingly  root  themselves  in  the 
crevices  of  the  gray  masonry  by  the  low  Gothic  por 
tal;  the  little  interior,  with  its  two  round,  massive 
columns  that  fling  graceful  arches  in  all  directions 
over  the  low  vault.  And  it  does  not  lessen  one's 
appreciation  of  the  little  church  to  know  that  here, 
within  these  very  walls,  was  found  not  many  years 
ago  a  record  of  the  birth  of  our  famous  D'Artag- 
nan,  whom  the  whole  world  knows  as  the  dashing 
captain  of  the  mousquetaires  of  the  King! 

People  should  remember  that,  and  then  call  us 
provincial  if  they  like! 


#4  Abbe  Pierre 

We  have  a  saying  that  when  the  Pyrenees  can  be 
seen,  it  is  a  sign  of  bad  weather.  For  the  next  two 
days  the  Pyrenees  could  be  seen  from  my  garden, 
very  dimly,  it  is  true,  yet  there  they  were.  So,  when 
the  Sunday  of  the  fete  came,  and  it  was  cloudy,  I 
was  not  surprised.  But  we  have  another  saying, 
from  which  I  derived  hope:  "If  it  rains  on  St. 
Medard's  day,  it  will  rain  for  forty  days,  unless  St. 
Barnabe  comes  and  kicks  him."  I  took  hope  from 
this  second  saying,  for  although  it  had  rained  on  St. 
Medard's  day — the  day  when  Monsieur  Ware  vis 
ited  me — it  did  not  rain  on  the  day  of  St.  Barnabe, 
so  there  was  the  kick. 

On  the  Sunday  morning  of  the  fete,  Monsieur 
Lartigue  rattled  up  in  his  cart  to  the  front  of  my 
house,  yelling,  "Whoa,  Coco!"  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  just  as  I  was  finishing  my  breakfast. 

"He  has  a  spirited  horse,"  thought  I,  and  has 
tened  down,  as  I  was  already  a  little  late. 

I  had  to  revise  my  notions  of  Monsieur  Larti- 
gue's  equipage.  I  found  an  old,  rickety,  two-wheeled 
cart,  attached  to  a  long-eared,  white  mule  of  consid 
erable  dimensions.  Monsieur  Lartigue  turned  out 
to  be  a  large,  big-boned,  florid-faced  man  with  a 
black  mustache,  from  whose  eyes,  set  near  together, 
shone  some  shrewdness,  more  vanity,  and  still  more 
good  humor.  He  reached  down  his  big  hand,  pulled 
me  up  to  the  seat  beside  him,  and  with  a  flourish 
of  the  whip  we  were  off. 

"Ah-eee!     Coco!" 

We  pass  the  church  at  a  gentle  trot  and  are  soon 
jolting  eastward  along  the  Road  of  the  Madonna, 


How  I  Went  to  Margouet        65 

past  the  blacksmith  shop,  kept  by  Lignac,  who  is 
lame,  and  who  waves  a  jovial  greeting.  Straight  on 
between  the  long  rows  of  plane  trees,  past  Ger- 
maine's  great  house  and  garden  on  the  left,  where, 
among  the  barns  at  the  rear,  one  glimpses  a  pair  of 
sturdy  oxen  hitched  to  a  wagon  piled  high  with  hay. 
And  then  old  Marinette's  little  house  by  the  road — 
she  was  with  Germaine's  mother  when  Germaine  first 
saw  the  light,  nearly  nineteen  years  ago!  Good, 
hearty,  big,  red-faced  Marinette,  who  answers  a  slow 
"Bonjour,  Monsieur  I* Abbe  "  to  our  greeting,  look 
ing  up  from  feeding  her  brood  of  little  geese.  Soon 
a  turn  to  the  left,  and  up  the  hill  called  the  Bethau 
we  go,  at  a  slow  walk  now,  for  the  hill  is  steep  and 
Coco  is  tired  already. 

For  my  part,  I  am  glad  to  go  a  little  slower,  for 
I  much  distrust  these  two-wheeled  carts  which,  be 
sides  their  motion  of  progress  along  the  road,  add 
other  kinds  of  motion  more  distressing — a  rocking 
motion  backward  and  forward,  and  a  twisting  motion 
to  right  and  left  with  every  step.  And  since  so  many 
people  are  thrown  out  of  these  carts,  especially  when 
the  horse  is  lively,  a  stranger  might  wonder  why  it 
is  our  custom  to  use  them  so  much  instead  of  sen 
sible,  four-wheeled  carriages.  Perhaps  the  secret 
why  we  have  two-wheeled  instead  of  four-wheeled 
vehicles  is  that  then  four  wheels  suffice  to  make  two 
vehicles  instead  of  one — and  we  are  thrifty.  One 
is  tempted  to  think  that  if  two-wheeled  automobiles 
were  possible,  we  would  adopt  them!  Since  it  is 
impossible,  we  have  few  automobiles  in  our  country. 

Monsieur  Lartigue's  cart  was  even  worse  than 


66  Abbe  Pierre 

the  ordinary  cart,  since  it  seemed  to  need  repair  at 
every  point.  The  harness  was  mended  with  rough 
rope  in  half  a  dozen  places,  and  the  wheels  had  a 
way  of  wobbling  back  and  forth  in  a  very  eccentric 
manner.  At  each  turn  of  the  road,  I  feared  that  one 
of  them  would  forsake  us — and  there  are  many 
turnings  on  the  road  to  Margouet.  Why,  our  roads 
are  so  winding  that  what  would  be  one  kilometer  in 
a  straight  line  is  often  two  by  the  road.  But  what 
does  one  care  when  the  roads  are  so  beautiful,  with 
the  high,  uncut  hedges  on  either  side,  often  over 
topped  by  waving  crests  of  the  graceful  gorse — along 
whose  edge  I  notice  the  dainty  purple  blossoms  of 
the  heather,  the  first  I  have  seen  this  year ! 

And  then  the  long  rows  of  stately  poplars  casting 
their  slender  shadows,  and  the  friendly  grass  crowd 
ing  as  close  to  the  road  as  it  can;  and  wild  flowers, 
gallant  on  their  long  stems,  or  peeping  out  mildly 
from  their  soft  bed  of  green.  And  every  little  while 
a  peasant's  house,  nestling  very  close  to  the  road,  a 
house  to  which  the  barn  is  attached  more  often  than 
not,  as  if  in  hearty  good  will  and  companionship. 
On  we  went  this  Sunday  morning  through  these 
scenes,  made  still  more  enchanting  now  that  the  sun 
had  come  out  at  last — only  the  sun  was  hot,  and  Coco 
insisted  upon  walking  from  one  side  of  the  road  to 
the  other  in  search  of  the  shade,  and  even  stopped 
to  munch  the  long  grass  where  the  shade  was  thick 
est. 

"Ah-eee!    Coco!" 

At  last  we  were  on  the  summit  of  the  long,  wind 
swept  hill  of  the  Bethau,  whence  we  could  look  far 


How  I  Went  to  Margouet        67 

down  on  my  village,  across  fields  newly  stacked  with 
the  fresh-cut  hay,  whose  scent  is  one  of  the  delights 
of  June. 

"Hi!     Coco!" 

We  dipped  down  the  winding  road  toward  Mar 
gouet,  now  visible  on  its  lower  hill  in  the  valley  be 
yond,  from  where  we  faintly  heard  the  bells  ringing. 

"It  will  be  a  wonderful  fete  !"  said  Monsieur  Lar- 
tigue,  who  up  to  now  had  been  very  busy  managing 
Coco. 

"It  is  a  grand  program,"  said  I.  "I  saw  it,  printed 
in  red,  in  front  of  our  town  hall.  Has  the  balloon 
really  arrived?" 

"But  yes!  It  will  be  a  splendid  sight!  And  the 
bakery  has  been  turned  into  a  cafe,  so  everybody 
may  have  refreshments. — But  we  must  hurry,  or 
we  will  be  late  for  the  procession." 

"Coco!  Ah-eee!  Gently!  Gently!"  cried 
Monsieur  Lartigue,  for,  feeling  the  sting  of  the 
whip,  Coco  had  made  a  sudden  spurt  forward 
that  was  so  unexpected  and  violent  that  it  nearly 
threw  me  backwards  out  of  the  cart,  and  would  have 
done  so  had  I  not  been  holding  very  tightly  to  the 
side  of  the  seat.  But  I  consoled  myself  that  we 
would  soon  be  at  our  journey's  end.  We  were  al 
ready  passing  people  bound  for  the  fete,  some  on 
foot,  some  on  bicycles,  some  riding  in  carts  like  our 
own,  most  of  them  with  handkerchiefs  suspended 
from  their  hats  down  over  the  backs  of  their  necks 
to  protect  them  from  the  hot  sun,  and  every  one  of 
them  with  a  cordial  greeting  for  us  and  for  every 
one  else  they  met,  as  is  our  good  Gascon  custom. 


68  Abbe  Pierre 

Soon  we  were  passing  the  windmill  with  its  giant 
arms,  not  far  from  the  village — the  old,  stone  wind 
mill,  through  whose  ruined  roof  one  can  look  through 
to  the  sky — and  then  the  accident  happened. 

I  had  already  noticed  Monsieur  Lartigue  looking 
back  from  time  to  time  at  our  right  wheel,  and  now 
he  pulled  up  Coco  to  a  sudden  stop,  and  cried  out, 

"Bou  Diouf  Arre!  Arre!" — all  of  which  means 
in  patois,  "Good  God!  Back!  Back!" 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked  with  some  concern, 

"Milo  Ditsf"  (A  thousand  fingers.)  "The  rim 
has  come  off!" 

To  be  sure  it  had.  The  iron  rim  had  sprung  away 
from  the  wheel,  and  was  hanging  out  from  it  in  a 
hopeless  manner. 

"I  had  better  get  down  and  walk  the  rest  of  the 
way,"  said  I. 

"No!  No!  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  it  shall  all  be  ar 
ranged  in  one  little  moment!  Here  is  rope.  See!" 
And  Monsieur  Lartigue  tied  the  rim  back  in  its  place 
on  the  wheel. 

I  was  not  much  pleased  with  this  arrangement,  for 
I  was  sure  it  would  not  last.  Besides,  we  had  to  go 
very  slowly  now,  and  the  people  whom  we  had  passed 
on  the  road  were  beginning  to  catch  up  with  us, 
every  one  of  them  anxious  to  ascertain  the  trouble, 
until  the  crowd  became  so  dense  that  we  had  to  stop 
and  explain  the  whole  matter  and  receive  a  thou 
sand  suggestions  as  to  how  to  remedy  the  difficulty. 
Just  then,  Coco  suddenly  started  up,  frightened  at 
the  people,  and  the  iron  rim  sprang  loose  again, 
worse  than  before. 


How  I  Went  to  Margouet       69 

"Animal!"  cried  Monsieur  Lartigue,  and  then  we 
stopped  again.  I  immediately  embraced  the  oppor 
tunity  to  step  down  into  the  road. 

"Thank  you,  ever  so  much,  Monsieur  Lartigue. 
It  is  not  far  now,  and  I  can  easily  walk.  I  do  not 
mind  it  in  the  least.  Then  you  can  lead  Coco  slowly 
to  your  house." 

"I  regret  it,  Monsieur  1'Abbe!     Coco  is  a  fool!" 

But  I  was  not  destined  to  walk,  for  just  then  my 
friend,  Monsieur  Caperan,  came  up  with  his  fine  new 
cart  and  insisted  upon  helping  me  up  to  th&  seat  by 
his  side;  soon  his  good  horse  had  out-distanced  the 
crowd  around  Monsieur  Lartigue  and  Coco,  and  the 
square  tower  of  Margouet's  church  came  full  in 
sight  around  a  turn  of  the  road. 

I  am  glad  enough  that  Monsieur  Caperan  hap 
pened  along.  I  had  a  distaste  for  entering  the  vil 
lage  with  Coco  and  his  dilapidated  cart,  even  if  it 
were  fixed  again  by  the  rope.  It  was  sure  to  be 
embarrassing,  for  every  time  the  wheel  went  round 
and  struck  the  thick  rope,  it  made  a  jolting  noise 
that  no  one  could  fail  to  observe,  and  I  hate  to  at 
tract  attention  like  that.  And  it  would  hardly  be 
come  the  dignity  of  a  priest  on  this  occasion  to  be 
trudging  along  the  dusty  road  and  to  be  entering  the 
waiting  village  on  foot. 

When  we  were  approaching  the  cure's  house,  I 
heard  the  strains  of  the  band.  It  was  the  procession 
starting  for  the  church.  And  from  the  house  an 
altar  boy,  clad  in  the  customary  red  vestments,  was 
running  down  the  road  toward  the  church  with  a 
censer  swinging  from  his  hand. 


Chapter  X :  How  the  Fete  Began 

AS  I  look  back  over  what  I  have  been  writing;, 
I  perceive  that  I  am  not  really  so  old  as  I 
thought. 

Why  do  I  say  this? 

Because  I  have  always  noticed  that  a  man  that  is 
really  old  has  lost  much  of  his  interest  in  the  hap 
penings  of  the  world  that  surrounds  him.  He  has 
turned  his  eyes  inward,  so  to  speak,  upon  his  own 
meditations.  He  is  much  more  engrossed  in  the 
images  of  his  memory  and  the  phantoms  of  his 
speculations  and  dreams  than  in  the  real  men  and 
women  with  whom  he  lives,  yet  with  whom  he  has, 
in  a  measure,  ceased  to  live. 

I  used  to  wonder  why  it  is  that  philosophers  grow 
to  be  such  old  men ;  but  now  I  am  beginning  to  know. 
It  is  because  a  man  has  to  grow  old  first  before  he 
can  be  a  philosopher.  Such  men  have  actually  be 
gun  that  withdrawal  from  the  world  which  ends  at 
last  in  the  utter  withdrawal  that  we  call  death. 

Now,  if  my  observations  are  correct,  it  is  clear 
that  I  am  not  in  the  least  old.  For  everything  that 
happens  about  me  is  still  of  living  interest  to  me. 
Especially  since  coming  back  to  my  native  village 

70 


How  the  Fete  Began  71 

this  time  do  I  find  that  every  detail  of  the  daily 
events  about  me  excite  my  curiosity  and  interest,  so 
that  I  find  myself  really  living  in  them  with  a  some 
what  eager  zest  about  them.  It  is  quite  possible  that 
I  may  lose  this  eagerness  gradually  as  time  goes  on 
and  custom  grows  stale;  but  just  now,  being  freshly 
returned  to  these  scenes,  everything  strikes  me  as 
though  it  had  something  of  newness  in  it. 

Well,  there  is  no  harm  in  that,  and  somehow  I 
enjoy  it;  and,  as  I  say,  it  proves  that  I  am  not  so  old 
as  I  thought — which  is  a  great  consolation  when  one 
remembers  how  short  life  is  at  the  best. 

Still,  I  had  seen  so  many  fetes  in  my  life  that  I 
fully  expected  that  this  fete  at  Margouet  would  seem 
dull  enough.  But  because  I  had  in  my  heart  the 
gladness  that  greets  old  things  as  though  something 
long  lost  were  unexpectedly  found  again  and  thereby 
made  doubly  precious — because  of  this,  I  entered  into 
the  events  of  the  fete  with  some  of  the  eagerness  I 
once  had  for  such  things  when  everything  Gascon 
was  dear  to  me — but  never  so  dear  as  it  is  now. 

By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  the  road  running 
through  the  little  village  was  quite  alive  with  crowds 
of  people  from  the  surrounding  country.  I  was  sur 
prised  to  see  so  many;  but,  after  all,  there  are  people 
who  never  miss  a  fete  anywhere,  if  it  is  at  all  pos 
sible  to  get  to  it,  even  if  they  have  to  walk  many 
kilometers;  and  Margouet  had  seen  to  it  that  every 
village  in  the  neighborhood  knew  about  its  great 
celebration.  Up  and  down  the  road  they  thronged 
and  jostled,  greeting  old  friends,  introducing  new 


72  Abbe  Pierre 

ones,  standing  in  groups  and  talking  and  laughing, 
good-natured,  eager,  young  and  old,  and  all  in  their 
best  clothes — many  of  the  older  women  with  the 
long,  black  Gascon  hood  over  their  heads,  and  many 
of  the  peasants  with  their  red  or  blue  sashes  and 
their  round,  flat  caps.  I  say  it  was  a  good-natured 
crowd — and  why  should  they  not  be  feeling  at  their 
best  after  such  a  wonderful  dinner  of  course  on 
course,  always  one  of  the  great  events  of  a  fete-day, 
with  food  enough,  yes,  and  wine  enough  to  make  the 
most  unlikely  disposition  jovial  and  contented ! 

While  I  saw  many  strange  faces,  there  were  fa 
miliar  ones,  too,  from  Aignan  and  Averon,  and  even 
from  farther  off.  The  house  of  the  Abbe  Prechac  is 
just  across  the  road  from  the  post  office  and  the 
town  hall,  right  in  the  center  of  things,  so  we  both 
could  look  out  upon  the  crowd  whenever  we  wished, 
without  being  seen.  Once  I  went  to  the  garden  gate 
long  enough  to  greet  my  old  friend,  Marius  Fontan, 
whom  I  had  not  seen  for  a  year,  and  who,  it  seemed 
to  me,  was  showing  his  age. 

The  crowd  was  largest  in  the  great  yard  in  front 
of  the  post  office.  There  were  plenty  of  rea 
sons  why  it  gathered  here.  In  the  first  place,  the 
band,  standing  under  a  tree,  was  playing  a  lively 
tune.  In  the  second  place,  the  bakery,  this  side  the 
post  office,  and  in  the  same  building,  had  been 
turned  into  a  cafe  for  the  occasion,  and  men  were 
constantly  edging  their  way  in  and  out.  In  front, 
long  tables  had  been  improvised  by  placing  boards 
on  sawhorses,  and  these  all  were  full,  and  the  gar- 
were  hastening  hither  and  thither,  most  of 


How  the  Fete  Began  73 

them  with  beer  and  lemonade-water.  With  the  mix 
ture  of  these  one  makes  a  biere  panache,  which 
anybody  will  admit  is  an  excellent  thing  on  a  hot  day. 
If  any  one  was  so  imprudent  as  to  leave  his  bench 
for  a  moment,  his  seat  was  immediately  taken. 
Everything  about  the  cafe  was  lively  indeed,  except 
that  just  inside  the  door,  in  a  corner,  several  very 
old  men  were  playing  piquet,  using  a  saucer  of  white 
beans  for  counters. 

But  outside  the  cafe  in  the  great  yard  was  the 
sight  to  see.  Everywhere  booths  covered  with  can 
vas,  gayly  decorated  with  streamers,  under  which, 
on  boards,  draped  with  bright  red  cloth,  were  spread 
all  sorts  of  things  intended  to  tempt  centimes  and 
francs.  For  the  young  men,  wheels  of  fortune, 
whose  spinning  arrows  would  reward  the  sanguine 
with  a  package  of  tobacco,  or  a  coffee  cup,  or  noth 
ing.  For  the  ladies,  hair-combs  in  great  variety, 
and  ribbons  of  all  colors;  for  the  children,  gay  horns 
and  whistles  and  shiny,  red,  toy  balloons,  tugging 
lightly  at  their  long  strings;  and  for  everybody, 
candy  and  cakes,  which  everybody  bought  sooner  or 
later. 

One  might  think  that  all  this  is  a  strange  way  for 
a  village  to  honor  its  patron  saint;  but  all  our  fetes 
are  like  this,  and  one  must  recollect  that  the  really 
important  part  of  the  fete  is  the  religious  part — at 
least,  that  is  the  way  it  is  supposed  to  be.  Even 
now  it  was  nearing  the  time  for  vespers,  and  the 
band  had  ceased  playing,  and  many  of  the  crowd 
were  moving  away  from  the  yard  toward  the  church, 
whose  bell  was  ringing.  Perhaps  more  went  to  the 


74  Abbe  Pierre 

church  than  otherwise  would  have  gone,  because  the 
sky  had  become  overcast  and  a  few  drops  of  rain 
were  beginning  to  fall. 

But  the  little  church  would  not  hold  them  all,  even 
standing,  much  as  most  of  them  wanted  to  hear  the 
band,  which  makes  an  immense  noise  in  the  tiny 
building,  so  voluminous  that  it  threatens  to  burst 
the  sturdy  walls  asunder — and  the  people  like  whole- 
souled  music  like  that!  And  then  the  singing  was 
better  than  usual,  although  the  tenors  were  fre 
quently  out  of  tune,  and  the  enthusiastic  baritone  of 
the  blacksmith  from  a  neighboring  village  rose  too 
much  like  a  discordant  bray  above  the  sweet  voices 
of  the  choir  boys.  Still,  he  did  his  best,  and  was 
serious  about  it,  and  reverent  perhaps,  although  I 
mentioned  to  the  Abbe  Prechac  afterwards  that  his 
voice  was  not  really  adapted  to  singing  the  praises 
of  the  good  God.  Of  course,  God  would  forgive 
it,  for  He  is  ever  pitiful  for  the  frailty  of  His  crea 
tures;  but  there  are  some  things  it  is  hard  for  mere 
men  to  bear! 

In  the  middle  of  the  vespers,  the  sun-  came  out 
again  and  shone,  a  riot  of  rose  and  gold,  through 
the  rich,  narrow  windows,  so  that  people  kept  pass 
ing  out  the  great,  oak  door,  which  creaked  and  rat 
tled  every  time  it  was  opened.  Then  others  poured 
in,  and  so  it  went. 

I  think  the  most  solemn  thing  about  these  fetes 
of  ours  is  the  religious  procession  that  occurs  just 
after  the  vespers  are  over;  and  perhaps  the  patron 
saint  is  honored  more  beautifully  by  this  than  by 
anything  else.  Impressive  it  is  to  see  the  silver 


How  the  Fete  Began  75 

crucifix  borne  aloft  on  its  tall  staff  at  the  front  of 
the  procession  as  it  leaves  the  church;  the  priest  with 
his  sweeping,  gold-embroidered  cope  flashing  in 
the  sun,  chanting  as  he  walks,  an  altar  boy  on  each 
side  of  him,  with  his  tunic  of  lace  over  red,  carry 
ing  a  censer;  the  women  singing  responses;  and  the 
men  following  two  by  two  in  the  rear.  Oh,  it  is  a 
sight  to  inspire  thoughts  that  reach  far  beyond  this 
puny  world! 

The  procession  goes  down  the  sloping  path  of  the 
churchyard  to  the  road,  then  up  the  road  to  the 
crossways,  where  stands  the  statue  of  the  Madonna, 
garlanded  with  flowers;  then  slowly  back  around  the 
other  side  of  the  church  to  the  little  cemetery  at  the 
rear,  amid  whose  rows  of  pathetic  mounds,  newly 
covered  with  loving  blossoms,  rises  high  a  rough, 
wooden  crucifix,  from  which  looks  down  the  Son  of 
God  to  pity  and  to  bless.  Blessed,  blessed  image, 
that  transforms  these  graves  of  the  sleeping  dead 
into  the  vision  of  endless  life! 

Ah,  he  who  would  doubt  God,  let  him  only  gaze 
at  the  crucifix  for  one  moment  with  his  heart  in  his 
eyes! 

But  some  people  do  not  have  reverence  for  any 
thing,  no  matter  how  sacred.  How  can  that  be? 
Even  while  the  procession  was  passing  from  the 
church,  bicycles  were  racing  up  and  down  the  road, 
and  people  who  ought  to  have  known  better,  and 
who  should  have  been  in  the  procession  themselves, 
were  idly  watching  them.  Although  these  did 
take  off  their  hats  as  the  procession  passed,  and 
called  to  the  racers  on  the  bicycles  to  stop,  or  they 


76  Abbe  Pierre 

would  run  Into  the  procession,  that  does  not  excuse 
them. 

What  the  racers  on  the  bicycles  were  getting  ready 
for  was  the  duck  race,  although  at  first  thought  one 
might  wonder  what  a  duck  race  has  to  do  with  bi 
cycles.  Truly,  the  matter  can  only  be  explained  by 
one  who  is  familiar  with  ancient  customs.  A  real 
duck  race  is  exciting  enough.  It  is  a  game  in  the 
water  where  the  best  swimmers  race  after  a  duck 
and  endeavor  to  capture  it,  which  is  a  very  difficult 
matter,  as  any  one  who  is  acquainted  with  the  habits 
of  ducks  can  attest;  and  the  reward  is  the  duck  itself. 
But  this  popular  game  can  be  played  only  in  the 
water;  so  where  no  water  is  to  be  had,  they  substitute 
a  game  with  horses  and  rings.  That  is,  small  rings 
are  suspended  at  intervals  from  a  rope  hung  straight 
across  the  road,  and  then  men  on  horseback,  bearing 
long  sticks  in  their  hands,  like  javelins,  try  to  put 
them  through  one  of  the  rings  as  they  race  by.  It 
requires  a  good  eye  and  a  steady  hand.  It  resembles 
the  jousting  of  knights  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  is  a 
splendid  game. 

Xow,  the  duck  race  at  this  fete  was  just  as 
I  have  described,  only  the  racers  used  bicycles 
instead  of  horses,  and  their  forefingers  extended 
straight  before  them  instead  of  poles.  So  the  rings 
were  hung  low,  just  above  the  heads  of  the  racers, 
and  every  time  one  put  his  finger  through  a  ring  as 
he  sped  by,  the  ring  came  off,  being  suspended  only 
by  paper,  and  there  was  much  shouting  and  laughter, 
and  he  who  succeeded  in  pulling  down  a  ring  that 


How  the  Fete  Began  77 

way  was  awarded  fifty  centimes  and  a  great  deal  of 
applause. 

All  these  exciting  things  I  could  view  excellently 
from  the  Abbe  Prechac's  front  window,  in  a  room 
on  the  upper  floor,  where  he  has  his  books. 

While  they  were  preparing  for  the  bicycle  race,  a 
young  man  appeared  from  the  direction  of  the  cafe, 
passing  up  and  down  the  crowd  with  a  large  bowl 
of  some  yellow  liquid  that  looked  like  custard,  with 
the  handles  of  two  spoons  emerging  from  it.  Every 
body  was  anxious  to  see  the  custard  contest,  and 
followed  the  bowl  around,  hoping  it  would  begin  at 
once.  As  every  one  knows,  this  game  needs  at  least 
two  persons,  who  are  first  blindfolded  and  then  re 
quired  to  feed  the  custard  into  each  other's  mouths 
until  the  bowl  is  empty.  In  all  such  contests  that  I 
have  seen,  very  little  of  the  custard  really  got  as  far 
as  the  inside  of  the  contestants'  mouths,  although 
much  of  it  attained  to  some  portion  of  their  faces, 
and  still  more  to  their  clothes.  Undeniably,  it  is  a 
hazardous  game;  but  alas!  since  the  only  reward  is 
the  small  amount  of  custard  one  succeeds  in  actually 
swallowing,  and  since  no  one  seemed  to  be  hungry 
enough  for  that  to  spoil  his  best  garments,  the  crowd 
was  cheated  of  what  is  a  merry  spectacle,  and  well 
worth  seeing. 

But  everybody  forgot  this  little  disappointment 
at  once,  for  immediately  some  one  shouted  that  those 
who  had  entered  the  bicycle  race  were  just  starting 
for  the  crossroads  half  a  mile  away,  where  the  stone 
windmill  is,  and  where  the  race  was  to  begin.  There 


78  Abbe  Pierre 

was  a  great  rush  for  the  road  to  see  them  off  and 
to  be  ready  in  favorable  positions  when  the  racers 
should  come  speeding  back  to  the  line  where  the 
committee  of  awards  even  now  stood,  looking  rather 
self-important  and  disputing  about  some  detail  of 
procedure.  There  were  three  who  had  entered  the 
race,  and  these  now  were  well  on  toward  the  start 
ing  place,  all  brawny  youths,  attired  in  what  they 
conceived  to  be  athletic  costumes,  their  arms  and 
legs  bare.  There  was  one  clad  in  a  rough,  red  shirt, 
who  looked  like  a  young  giant,  and  whose  muscles 
stood  out  on  his  arms  and  legs  in  a  way  that  im 
pressed  one  with  great  strength.  I  knew  him  for 
the  son  of  a  peasant  woman  who  lives  in  Mauser, 
down  behind  the  Forest  of  Aignan. 

At  last  the  signal  for  the  great  race  was  heard — 
the  firing  of  a  gun  down  at  the  old  mill.  It  was 
simply  impossible  to  keep  the  eager  crowd  out  of 
the  road,  no  matter  how  much  the  committee 
shouted  and  warned  and  threatened  and  ran  hither 
and  thither,  for  what  is  the  good  of  a  bicycle  race 
if  one  cannot  see  it?  On  they  came,  up  and  down 
the  little  hills  of  the  smooth  white  road,  the  crowd 
now  eagerly  silent,  now  breaking  into  murmurs  and 
exclamations,  slowly  becoming  aware  that  the  young 
giant  in  red  was  rapidly  out-distancing  the  other 
two  and  was  coming  on  as  though  nothing  could  stop 
him.  The  crowd  was  instinctively  edging  back  to 
ward  the  sides  of  the  road  to  make  room,  when  a 
sudden  shout  went  up, 

"Look!    Ah!    He  has  broken  down !" 


How  the  Fete  Began  79 

The  man  in  red  had  suddenly  stopped,  violently 
thrown  from  his  bicycle. 

Is  he  hurt? 

No,  he  is  picking  himself  up. 

And  now  what  is  he  doing?  Not  remounting — 
no,  but  running  along  with  his  broken  bicycle  by  his 
side — running  faster  and  faster,  his  competitors  still 
behind  him,  but  closing  in  on  him — on  he  runs, 
straining  every  nerve,  his  trousers  torn,  his  red  shirt 
torn,  his  leg  bleeding,  his  face  grimy  with  dust  and 
perspiration.  He  comes !  He  comes !  Bou  Dion! 
He  is  here !  He  and  his  bicycle  have  crossed  the 
finishing  line  amid  the  tumultuous  cheering  and 
shouts  and  laughter,  the  winner! — one  little  yard 
ahead  of  the  next  man !  As  he  limps  by,  one  sees 
that  the  chain  of  his  bicycle  is  broken. 

But  is  he  the  winner?  The  committee  solemnly 
consults.  This  is  a  bicycle  race,  and  this  man  has 
run  part  of  the  race  on  foot.  Here  is  a  difficult 
point,  requiring  a  judicial  mind.  One  knows,  surely, 
that  it  is  all  the  more  glory  to  have  run  part  of  the 
race  on  one's  feet.  Besides,  he  did  not  leave  his 
bicycle  behind,  but  brought  it  with  him  every  step 
of  the  way,  so  it  was  a  bicycle  race,  after  all !  And 
besides,  again,  the  crowd  is  becoming  impatient  and 
demands  loudly  that  the  man  in  red  shall  receive  the 
prize.  And  so,  at  last,  it  is  awarded  him — five 
francs,  the  highest  prize  offered  for  any  of  the  events 
of  the  day,  and  the  crowd  applauds  in  great  good 
humor. 

For  my  part,  I  think  to  myself  that  it  is  of  such 


8o  Abbe  Pierre 

an  indomitable  spirit  as  this  young  peasant  showed 
to-day  that  a  great  civilization  is  made — that  France 
is  made! 

Even  as  I  thought  these  things,  I  spied  the  widow 
Duprat,  his  mother,  standing  by  the  road,  her  round, 
plain  face  lighted  up  by  the  joy  which  her  son's  vic 
tory  had  brought  to  her  simple  heart.  And  seeing 
her  there,  my  mind  could  not  help  reverting  to  the 
time,  now  three  years  ago,  when  she  narrowly  es 
caped  death,  in  an  event  which  was  much  talked  of 
then  by  the  people  of  these  hills.  It  was  a  summer 
of  terrible  storms,  when  many  of  the  vineyards 
were  destroyed  by  hail,  and  when  many  a  peasant 
lost  all  he  had  in  the  course  of  one  tragic  hour.  But 
the  worst  storm  of  all  was  very  early  one  memor 
able  morning  in  August.  The  clouds  covered  all  the 
sky  and  hung  so  low  that  they  hovered  almost  over 
the  roofs  of  the  houses — and  such  ominous  clouds 
they  were,  full  of  malignant  threatening,  livid  with 
greens  and  yellows,  with  incessant  sheets  of  lightning 
playing  through  them,  and  the  constant  rumble  of 
angry  thunder,  gathering  in  volume  and  ending  in 
crash  on  crash  that  rolled  and  echoed  and  rever 
berated  among  the  hills  with  hoarse  and  inhuman 
cries.  The  hail  rattled  tumultuously  in  the  distance 
and  rushed  nearer  and  nearer,  louder  and  louder, 
like  a  cataclysm  of  certain  doom.  It  was  so  bad 
that  nobody  dared  ring  the  church  bells  to  ward 
away  the  evil — it  was  too  late  and  too  dangerous 
for  that ! 

Dieu!    What  a  terrible  storm! 


How  the  Fete  Began  8 1 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The 
woman  Duprat,  in  her  great  alarm,  knew  of  only 
one  thing  to  do.  Over  the  great  fireplace  in  the 
kitchen,  behind  the  picture  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  on 
which  her  rosary  was  hanging,  there  was  a  piece  of 
laurel,  blessed  by  the  priest  on  Palm  Sunday — for, 
like  every  one  else  in  this  region,  she  had  taken  a 
branch  of  laurel  to  church  to  be  blessed;  and  to  burn 
it  is  a  holy  rite,  which  prevents  calamity.  To  the 
kitchen,  then,  she  hastened  and,  taking  thfs  branch 
of  laurel  from  its  place  with  her  left  hand,  she  was 
reaching  up  for  the  matches  with  her  right,  when 
there  came  a  deafening  crash  greater  than  all  the 
rest,  and,  hurtling  through  the  roof,  flashed  a  jave 
lin  of  lightning  which  struck  her  uplifted  hand, 
scorched  its  burning  way  down  her  arm,  shot 
down  her  side  clean  to  her  wooden  shoe,  and  shat 
tered  it  into  a  hundred  pieces,  and  cast  her  prone 
to  the  floor  unconscious !  Jean  Duprat,  her  husband, 
who  was  in  the  stable  attending  to  the  oxen,  heard 
the  crash  and  rushed  as  fast  as  he  could  into  the 
house  to  find  his  worst  fears  realized — ah,  good 
God!  she  was  dead!  He  called  in  the  neighbors 
hurriedly  and  hastened  his  son  to  Aignan  to  bring 
back  with  him  our  Doctor  Dousset.  And  blessed  be 
God,  he  was  able  to  revive  her,  and  she  lived!  Since 
then,  old  Jean  Duprat  has  passed  away;  but  she 
herself  was  here  to-day  to  see  her  stalwart  son 
cheered  and  applauded.  Surely,  it  was  enough  to 
warm  her  dear  old  heart! 

I  remember  that  old  Abbe  Castex,  our  cure  at 


82  Abbe  Pierre 

Aignan,  said  that  what  saved  her  life  that  time  was 
that  she  was  engaged  in  touching  holy  things. 

And  who  shall  deny  it?  The  invisible  is  much 
nearer  than  we  think;  and  what  we  call  miracles  may 
well  be  the  will  of  the  good  God  reaching  out  to 
touch  the  things  of  this  world,  transfiguring  them 
in  ways  we  are  too  ignorant  to  understand. 


Chapter  XI :  How  the  Fete  Ended 

LATER  in  the  afternoon,  people  were  looking 
up  anxiously  at  the  sky;  and  well  they  might, 
for  it  was  becoming  cloudy,  and  rain  threat 
ened  to  spoil  one  of  the  most  important  happenings 
of  the  day,  the  ascension  of  the  superb  balloon,  The 
Victorious.  There  they  were,  bringing  it  down  the 
road,  swinging  from  the  end  of  a  long,  slender  pole 
— somewhat  shapeless  yet,  since  it  was  not  fully  in 
flated  ;  but  any  one  could  see  how  gorgeous  it  would 
look,  with  its  generous  stripes  of  pink  and  lavender 
and  white.  And  such  a  large  balloon,  too,  surely 
twelve  feet  from  base  to  tip — what  a  thing  it  would 
be  when  it  rose  above  the  valleys  so  that  in  all  the 
villages  for  miles  around  men,  women,  and  children 
would  be  craning  their  necks  to  see,  and  would  be 
exclaiming, 

"That  is  the  balloon  from  Margouet;  they  are 
celebrating  their  fete  to-day!" 

But  the  balloon  is  not  up  yet,  and  accidents  may 
easily  happen,  as  those  who  have  attended  fetes  are 
aware.  One  has  to  be  very  careful  indeed  how  one 
inflates  a  paper  balloon  like  this.  Only  last  year 
at  the  fete  at  Sabazan  the  balloon  caught  fire  when 

83 


84  Abbe  Pierre 

it  was  almost  ready  to  ascend,  and  any  one  who  was 
there  remembers  how  the  crowd  was  disappointed 
and  went  home,  feeling  that  the  fete  was  a  failure. 

But  surely  there  will  be  no  such  accident  to-day, 
for  there  are  enough  heads  in  this  crowd  that  know 
how  a  balloon  should  be  managed  and  who  intend 
having  some  say  in  the  matter.  Everybody  seems 
to  feel  some  of  the  responsibility  of  it,  for  every 
body  has  crowded  now  into  the  great  yard,  forming 
an  anxious  circle  about  the  balloon,  and  many  are  ex 
citedly  engaged  in  giving  advice  to  the  men  who 
have  charge  of  it.  A  heap  of  straw  has  been  made, 
and  now  a  match  is  applied  to  it  amid  a  sudden  hush 
of  voices,  and  the  man  bearing  the  balloon  on  the 
end  of  the  pole,  standing  high  in  a  cart,  holds  it 
over  the  flame,  that  the  heated  air  may  enter  and 
swell  it  out. 

"Closer  to  the  flame!" 

uNo!    Not  so  near,  it's  burning!" 

"There!" 

"Bravo!" 

The  balloon  has  expanded  bravely,  and  now  since 
it  is  bellied  to  its  full  proportions  and  its  paper  skin 
is  taut,  one  may  see  the  gay  design  of  dancing  dev 
ils  printed  over  it.  It  has  life,  it  struggles  to  free 
itself. 

"Let  it  go!" 

But  not  yet.  The  postman  pushes  his  way  through 
the  crowd  with  a  dish  of  paste  in  one  hand  and  sev 
eral  long  strips  of  paper  in  the  other,  and  with  a 
flourish  attaches  them  to  the  balloon  here  and  there. 
Each  strip  has  "Margouet-Meymes"  boldly  lettered 


How  the  Fete  Ended  85 

on  it,  and  when  the  crowd  sees  the  village's  name, 
they  cheer  again. 

"Let  go !     Let  go !" 

At  last!  The  impatient  creature  is  set  free,  and 
amid  a  generous  clapping  of  hands,  it  rises  high 
above  the  crowd,  up,  up,  tipping  ever  so  gently  to 
ward  the  west — higher  and  higher,  growing  ever 
smaller,  as  the  band  plays  loudly  the  glorious  strains 
of  the  Marseillaise.  Long  do  they  look  at  that  far 
speck  floating  in  the  sky,  until  it  is  lost  at  last  in  the 
long  sea  of  clouds  that  roll  across  the  declining 
sun. 

Symbol  of  victory  indeed !  If  only  our  lives  could 
rise  to  the  freedom  of  the  sky  like  that ! 

I  was  thinking  that  it  was  about  time  for  me  to 
start  back  home,  for  my  Aunt  Madeleine  always  has 
supper  ready  at  seven,  and  I  do  not  like  to  be  late, 
for  reasons  that  those  who  know  my  aunt  would 
understand.  But  I  do  not  blame  her  in  the  least, 
for  she  is  getting  old,  and  is  entitled  to  some  con 
sideration.  The  question  was,  how  I  was  to  get 
home.  I  had  seen  my  friend,  Monsieur  Caperan, 
with  whom  I  had  made  my  entrance  into  Margouet, 
standing  near  the  balloon,  and  I  decided  that  I  would 
look  him  up  and  inquire  how  soon  he  expected  to 
start.  But  I  found  as  soon  as  I  emerged  from  the 
Abbe  Prechac's  house  that  the  crowd  was  already 
moving  down  the  road  to  the  large,  open  space  in 
front  of  the  little  town  hall,  where  the  dancing  was 
to  take  place  immediately. 

Here,  on  two  sides  of  a  rectangle,  long  boards 
had  been  put  on  old  boxes  to  serve  as  seats.  And 


86  Abbe  Pierre 

all  around,  gay  flags  hung  from  strings  stretched  on 
poles;  and  there  on  a  flat-topped  wagon  at  the  corner 
of  the  town  hall  was  the  band,  comprising  two  clari 
nets,  a  bass  horn,  and  a  cornet,  the  latter  played  by 
the  harness-maker  from  Aignan.  The  band  had 
already  started  up  a  lilting  tune,  called  La  Petite 
Nogentaise,  which  invites  readily  to  dancing  steps — 
although  the  bass  horn  was  ever  off  the  key,  and 
made  the  same  monotonous  grunts  on  exactly  two 
notes,  no  matter  what  piece  was  played.  All  that 
one  could  say  was  that  the  player  was  persevering, 
which  is  a  virtue  much  overvalued  in  this  world. 
Facing  each  of  the  band  was  a  kitchen  chair,  on  the 
seat  of  which  he  propped  up  his  music  book,  keeping 
it  open  with  small  rocks,  for  the  wind  was  blowing. 
And  on  the  wagon  by  the  band  was  a  gallon  bottle 
of  wine,  glinting  golden  in  a  stray  ray  of  sun.  The 
village  had  furnished  that,  for  it  is  universally  ad 
mitted  that  one  cannot  play  in  a  band  without  being 
abundantly  refreshed  from  time  to  time! 

There  is  no  denying  that  the  glimpses  I  obtained 
of  the  mazurkas  and  waltzes  and  schottisches  were 
very  pleasing,  although  the  dancing  green  sloped  so 
much  that  it  required  some  skill  to  keep  one's  bal 
ance,  especially  during  the  merry  quadrilles.  Still, 
I  was  reminded  of  what  little  Renee,  Madame 
Sance's  kitchen  girl,  had  said  the  day  before, 

"They  know,  they  at  Margouet,  how  to  get  up 
dances!" 

I  thought  I  had  seen  Monsieur  Caperan  go  into 
the  town  hall  a  moment  before,  so  I  made  my  way 


How  the  Fete  Ended  87 

thither.  The  town  hall  at  Margouet  is  only  a  small, 
one-storied  dwelling,  now  turned  into  an  office  for 
the  mayor  and  schoolrooms  for  the  children  of  the 
commune.  As  I  was  entering,  I  observed  that  the 
last  notice  on  the  little,  square  bulletin-board  by  the 
door  was  of  a  meeting  of  the  municipal  council  seven 
years  ago.  Time  does  not  mean  much  at  Mar 
gouet  ! 

I  could  not  find  Monsieur  Caperan  anywhere  in 
the  place.  As  I  was  coming  out,  it  had  started  to 
rain  again,  and  the  band  was  hurrying  inside,  the 
dancers  after  them,  as  many  as  could  enter.  Im 
mediately  the  band  struck  up  again,  and  the  dancing 
was  resumed  in  the  small  hallway,  where  it  soon 
became  warm  and  stifling,  the  crowded  couples  bump 
ing  against  each  other  and  making  dancing  exceed 
ingly  difficult. 

I  myself  was  sitting  in  a  corner  of  a  small  room 
off  the  hallway;  and  at  the  close  of  a  dance,  a  young 
peasant  and  his  smiling  partner  came  in;  not  seeing 
me,  he  placed  a  kiss  full  on  her  cheek,  and  then  they 
quickly  swept  out  into  the  hallway  again  to  join  in 
the  new  dance  which  had  just  begun.  I  happen  to 
know  these  two  to  be  engaged  to  be  married,  and 
under  the  circumstances,  I  suppose  there  is  some 
excuse  for  such  things ;  and  they  are  young.  I  could 
not  avoid  observing  them;  but  even  if  I  had  not  seen 
the  kiss,  I  would  have  heard  it.  This  reminds  me 
that  I  picked  up,  in  the  Abbe  Prechac's  study,  among 
his  old  books,  a  volume  printed  in  Toulouse  in  1768, 
which  pretends  to  correct  our  Gascon  ways  of  speech, 
and  which  criticizes  us  for  speaking  of  "making  a 


88  Abbe  Pierre 

kiss," — falre  un  baiser.  But  I  think  that  this 
book  is  wrong,  and  I  should  like  to  tell  the  profes 
sor  that  wrote  it  that  the  Gascons  literally  do  make 
a  kiss;  it  is  no  merely  casual  thing;  it  has,  as  it  were, 
an  architecture — a  foundation,  superstructure,  roof, 
towers,  and  flags! 

Like  Montaigne,  I  "speak  my  opinion  freely  of  all 
things,  even  of  those  that,  perhaps,  exceed  my  ca 
pacity,  and  that  I  do  not  conceive  to  be,  in  any  wise, 
under  my  jurisdiction." 

The  sun,  now  very  low  in  the  sky,  was  out  again, 
and  I  was  eager  to  travel  back.  And,  very  luckily, 
just  as  I  went  out-of-doors,  I  met  the  doctor  of  our 
village,  Monsieur  Dousset,  who  was  very  cordial 
with  me,  as  he  always  is,  and  who  insisted  that  I 
accompany  him  home  in  his  automobile — the  only 
one  of  which  our  village  boasts.  I  had  no  great 
desire  to  wait  for  the  fireworks,  or  the  grand 
ball,  or  the  illumination — it  would  be  hard  to 
illuminate  Margouet  with  oil  lamps  and  paper  lan 
terns  !  So  the  little  doctor  helped  me  into  his  auto 
mobile  under  a  tree,  and  with  a  brave  blowing  of 
the  horn,  we  were  on  our  way  along  the  winding 
road  to  Aignan. 

As  I  looked  back,  the  last  I  saw  of  the  great  fete 
was  the  golden  light  of  the  setting  sun  on  the  heads 
of  the  dancers;  and  the  last  sound  I  heard  was  the 
monotonous  rhythm  of  the  bass  horn,  lost  at  the  first 
turning  of  the  road.  Most  of  the  merrymakers, 
especially  the  younger  people,  would  not  be  moving 
homeward  until  after  midnight.  At  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  again  at  three  or  four,  I  was 


How  the  Fete  Ended  89 

awakened  by  the  boisterous  singing  of  some  youths 
of  our  village  as  they  passed  underneath  my  window. 
What  occupied  me  now,  though,  was  the  beauti 
ful  ride  home  along  the  hills  in  the  twilight.  Still — 
I  may  as  well  admit  it — I  did  not  think  so  much  of 
the  beauty  of  the  evening  as  of  one  fact  I  have  not 
yet  put  down;  namely,  at  the  dancing  I  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Monsieur  Ware,  the  American;  and 
with  him  was  not  only  Germaine's  sister,  Madame 
Dousset,  and  Henri — but  Germaine  herself! 


Chapter  XII:  We  Take  Ourselves 
Seriously 

TO-DAY  I  copied  and  mailed  to  my  devoted 
friend,  the  Abbe  Rivoire,  some  of  the  things 
I  had  written  about  the  fete  at  Margouet, 
thinking  it  might  divert  him.  On  my  return  from 
the  post  office,  I  was  bending  over  my  bed  of 
strawberry  plants  just  behind  the  garden-house,  when 
I  heard  a  peculiar  sound  from  the  direction  of  the 
gate.  It  was  only  one  of  our  long-legged  Gascon 
pigs,  who  was  shaking  his  head  so  vigorously  that 
his  tremendous  ears  made  a  leathery,  flapping  noise. 
Our  Gascon  pigs  are  not  exactly  things  of  beauty; 
their  legs  are  too  long  and  ungainly,  their  hides  are 
too  offensively  pink — hairless,  too,  and  looking  as  if 
they  had  just  been  shaved  and  polished;  and  then, 
quite  often,  the  rear  portions  of  their  anatomy  are 
finished  off  in  a  jet  black,  with  the  astonishing  ef 
fect  of  sleek-fitting  breeches.  They  look  better 
when  they  are  fat,  and  still  better  when  they  have 
achieved  their  appointed  destiny  and  hang  in  the  cool 
doorway  of  some  pork  butcher.  Then  they  do  have 
decided  elements  of  beauty,  I  suppose  because  then 
they  appeal  to  a  sense  other  than  that  of  sight. 
Immediately  afterwards,  I  heard  what  I  took  to 
90 


We  Take  Ourselves  Seriously      91 

be  the  faint  rattle  of  a  cart;  but,  looking  up,  I  saw 
that  it  was  Marinette,  with  her  wheelbarrow 
piled  high  with  wet  clothes,  on  the  way  down  the 
road  to  the  public  laundry  to  do  her  rinsing.  One 
looking  at  dear  old  Marinette  sees  a  good  type  of 
the  older  peasant  women  of  my  country — built  on 
generous  lines,  strong,  wide,  and  robust,  with  a  large, 
round,  florid  face,  high  cheek  bones,  a  vigorous  chin, 
a  determined  mouth,  and  very  straight,  gray  hair,  if 
the  cloth  bound  tightly  around  her  head  allowed  one 
to  see  it.  Our  men  are  different;  they  are  more 
bony  and  angular,  probably  from  long  hours  of  hard 
work  and  exposure  in  the  fields.  But  both  women 
and  men  of  our  peasant  class  have  a  look  of  serious 
ness,  almost  of  stolidity,  when  their  faces  are  in  re 
pose. 

Coming  from  Paris  so  recently,  I  noticed  this  seri 
ousness  in  the  faces  of  the  crowds  at  the  fete  at  Mar- 
gouet.  It  was  inevitable  to  see  that  the  people  were 
taking  even  their  pleasures  gravely,  very  much  as  if 
they  were  part  of  a  ceremony,  or  rite.  True,  some 
of  the  younger  people  were  more  light-hearted;  but, 
even  at  the  dancing,  there  was  a  certain  earnestness 
about  everything,  as  though  dancing  were  not  a  thing 
to  be  lightly  attempted  in  the  mood  of  gayety,  but, 
rather,  in  the  spirit  of  a  duty  to  be  conscientiously 
performed.  Between  the  dances,  one  might  indeed 
relax  and  be  more  natural  and  smiling;  but  as  soon 
as  the  dancing  began  again,  a  certain  dignity  auto 
matically  usurped  any  momentary  lapse  into  the 
frivolous. 

I  suppose  that  a  stranger  would  say  that  it  is 


92  Abbe  Pierre 

natural  for  our  peasants  to  be  serious,  even  in  their 
amusements,  because  they  live  such  hard  lives,  with 
nothing  but  toil  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  of  the 
sun.  How  many  millions  are  there  of  God's  crea 
tures  who  are  compelled  to  make  of  life  a  tragedy, 
so  that  the  lives  of  others  may  be  less  of  one !  And 
certainly,  there  is  some  truth  in  this  explanation. 
Even  our  women  of  the  common  peasant  class  get  old 
early;  there  is  not  that  long  and  gentle  interval  be 
tween  youth  and  old  age  which  more  fortunate 
women  know,  especially  in  cities.  To-day  our  women 
are  young,  and  lo !  to-morrow  they  are  old,  and  the 
roses  have  fled  from  their  faces,  the  relentless  lines 
chiseled  into  them  by  those  cold  sculptors — Pain  and 
Toil.  The  children — they,  too,  tend  to  have  an  old 
look;  pathetic  it  is  to  see  the  accusing  sorrow  that 
sometimes  peers  from  their  eyes,  having  learned  the 
pitiless  burdens  of  the  world  too  soon,  too  soon  I 

But  while  many  of  our  peasants  remind  one  truth 
fully  enough  of  Millet's  famous  painting  of  the  stolid 
and  hopeless  figure  wearily  leaning  on  his  hoe  in  the 
fields,  many  others  are  far  from  poor,  and  not  a 
few  are  rich  enough  to  be  beyond  the  pity  of  such 
people  as  know  no  better  than  to  suppose  that  all 
peasants  are  like  that.  Only  a  few  days  ago,  I  was 
invited  to  dinner  at  the  house  of  one  of  these  better 
peasants — he  lives  on  the  road  near  Fromentas — 
and  I  only  wish  I  were  able  to  eat  such  a  dinner  as 
Monsieur  Fabre  gave  me,  once  a  week  for  the  rest 
of  my  life!  Tapioca  soup,  clear  and  tempting;  then 
sausage  and  butter;  and  after  one  had  eaten  of  a 
delicious  guinea-hen  with  wine  sauce,  the  dinner  had 


We  Take  Ourselves  Seriously      93 

only  just  begun !  String  beans  next,  and  goose-liver 
such  as  one  seldom  gets  these  days ;  then  a  wonderful 
leg  of  mutton,  with  just  the  right  flavor  of  garlic; 
after  that,  lettuce  salad,  and  cake  with  cream-sauce, 
not  to  mention  coffee  and  fruits;  and,  after  dinner, 
good  old  armagnac  that  warmed  one's  heart;  and 
even  now  I  have  not  mentioned  the  wine,  fifty  years 
old,  besides  the  vin  ordinaire  all  through  the  meal! 
I  say  I  wish  I  were  able  to  eat  such  a  dinner  often. 
But  I  am  not,  for  one  reason  because  my  body  is 
not  fitted  for  such  things.  Even  as  it  was,  I  enjoyed 
it  so  much  that  I  was  not  at  my  best  for  two  days 
afterwards,  and  wrote  nothing  at  all  in  these  pages ! 

Long  live  Monsieur  and  Madame  Fabre,  in  their 
fine  old  home,  surrounded  by  their  cattle,  and  geese, 
and  rabbits,  and  ducks,  and  pigs,  and  the  great  vine 
yard  rolling  over  the  hill  to  the  east  towards  Fro- 
mentas  church !  , 

Surely,  such  peasants  are  not  to  be  pitied,  with 
their  large  vineyards,  and  butter  and  eggs  and  milk 
to  sell  at  the  prices  one  pays  now,  since  the  war, 
when  a  pair  of  oxen  that  used  to  bring  a  thousand 
francs  now  brings  ten  times  as  much !  Still,  I  am 
free  to  admit  that  even  the  richer  peasants  work 
hard  enough,  and  acquire  our  Gascon  habit  of  seri 
ousness  which  is  not  easy  to  throw  off. 

Then,  one  must  bear  in  mind  that  the  people  of 
these  hills  do  not  have  many  diversions,  and  when 
they  do  have  them  it  is  natural  that  they  should  take 
them  more  ceremoniously  than  do  people  in  cities, 
who  are  used  to  amusing  themselves  in  a  thousand 
different  ways.  Then  again,  our  Gascon  people 


94  Abbe  Pierre 

have  a  sense  of  dignity  and  independence,  which 
comes  of  their  living  the  lives  they  live,  each  on  his 
own  little  plot  of  land,  which  he  works  with  his  own 
hands,  getting  his  daily  bread  as  the  proud  creation 
of  his  own  will  and  effort.  Yes,  that  sort  of  life 
gives  a  dignity  to  a  man,  crude  as  it  may  be,  which 
it  is  difficult  to  deprive  him  of  I  And  I  suppose  this 
dignity  makes  us  self-conscious,  even  in  our  pleas 
ures,  and  very  sensitive  to  ridicule.  One  may  call 
this  sense  of  dignity  a  sort  of  vanity  if  one  pleases; 
there  probably  is  some  vanity  in  us  Gascons — we 
have  been  accused  of  it  enough  by  unsympathetic 
strangers,  who  say  that  we  love  nothing  better  than 
to  be  looked  at  and  admired;  that  we  are  even  boast 
ful  and  grandiloquent  and  fond  of  loud  speaking, 
and  that  history  is  full  of  Gascon  swashbucklers  and 
swaggerers  who  apparently  had  never  heard  of  the 
virtue  called  humility!  It  occurs  to  me  that  it  all 
depends  upon  how  one  looks  at  things;  and  if  one  is 
a  boaster,  it  depends  upon  whether  he  is  boasting 
with  or  without  reason.  If  one  is  a  coward  and 
boasts  of  his  bravery,  that  is  foolish  and  idle  enough, 
and  ought  to  be  greatly  discouraged;  but  if  one  is 
not  a  coward,  but  really  strong  and  warlike  and 
energetic  and  brave,  then,  just  because  he  frankly 
proclaims  the  qualities  he  knows  he  possesses  and 
can  prove,  being  thankful  for  them  and  proud  of 
them,  it  should  not  be  called  mere  vanity  or  boasting, 
but  a  pardonable  pride.  Such  are  we  Gascons. 

Swashbucklers  and  swaggerers  indeed!  The 
faithful  companions  of  Jeanne  d'Arc,  those  who 
alone  remained  loyally  by  her  side,  despising  danger 


We  Take  Ourselves  Seriously      95 

and  fighting  for  her  from  first  to  last,  were  Gas 
cons;  so  that  the  English  actually  thought  that  she 
must  be  Gascon,  too — for  they  made  that  very  nat 
ural  mistake!  They  called  her  "the  little  Gascon 
from  Armagnac."  And  then,  the  renowned  figure  of 
D'Artagnan,  brilliantly  bold,  splendidly  valorous — 
where  could  the  illustrious  Dumas  have  found  such  a 
man  save  in  this  very  Gascony,  just  over  the  hills, 
yonder  to  my  left  as  I  write !  Is  it  any  wonder  that 
Napoleon  said,  "Give  me  an  army  of  true  Gascons, 
and  I  shall  be  able  to  charge  through  a  hundred 
leagues  of  flame!" 

No,  and  a  mere  boaster  is  not  much  use  in  the 
face  of  defeat,  either;  but  I  have  noticed  that  Gas 
cons  ever  keep  a  good  heart  in  the  midst  of  calamity, 
and  greet  misfortune  more  often  with  a  smile  than 
not,  because  they  are  brave  and  ever  hopeful,  and 
know  how  to  make  the  best  of  even  the  worst  situ 
ation.  If  one  thinks  he  can  get  a  Gascon  into  a 
place  where  he  cannot  help  himself,  he  had  better 
look  out!  For  we  Gascons  are  resourceful  and  we 
do  not  easily  lose  our  presence  of  mind  when  we 
are  in  trying  places.  We  Gascons,  so  prone  to  prov 
erbs  and  sayings,  like  this  one :  "If  the  land  is  sterile, 
sow  it  with  Gascons ;  they  will  grow  anywhere."  We 
like  it,  I  suppose,  because  it  does  us  justice.  That  is 
the  way  we  are. 

It  is  this  intelligent  resourcefulness,  united  with 
our  boldness,  that  has  enabled  us  to  give  France  so 
many  men  who  could  conduct  delicate  affairs  of  state. 
Gascony  gave  even  a  king  to  France  once,  and  I  see 
no  great  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  Henry  IV — "our 


96  Abbe  Pierre 

Henry,"  as  we  call  him — or  of  his  court  either,  which 
was  full  of  Gascons,  just  as  was  the  court  of  Louis 
XIII  after  him — Gascons  who  had  those  superb 
qualities  I  mentioned  as  making  notable  men  of 
affairs. 

I  think  I  have  written  down  enough  to  prove  to 
my  own  satisfaction  that  we  are  not  mere  boasters 
or  vain,  as  people  who  do  not  know  us  say  we  are. 
Of  course  there  are  vain  people  among  us,  like  Victor 
Claverie,  for  instance,  our  village  crier,  but  then, 
there  are  vain  people  everywhere,  and  I  am  as  much 
against  them  as  anybody.  The  real  proof  that  we 
are  not  vain  is  the  way  we  Gascons  condemn  and 
ridicule  each  other's  vanity,  whenever  it  appears. 
If  there  is  anything  a  Gascon  does  not  like,  it  is  to 
hear  another  Gascon  boast  about  himself. 

Say  we  are  proud,  if  you  please,  and  will  not  suf 
fer  humiliation  from  anybody.  It  is  D'Artagnan 
who  says  to  Aramis,  "I  come  from  Gascony,  it  is 
true:  and  since  you  are  aware  of  it,  there  is  no  need 
to  tell  you  that  Gascons  are  not  very  patient,  so 
that  when  they  have  asked  pardon  once,  even  for  a 
folly,  they  think  they  have  done  at  least  as  much 
again  as  they  ought  to  have  done." 

Before  making  hasty  generalizations  about  a  peo 
ple,  one  would  do  well  to  remember  that,  as  Mon 
taigne  says,  "man  is  a  wonderful,  vain,  divers,  and 
wavering  subject;  it  is  very  hard  to  ground  any  di 
rectly-constant  and  uniform  judgment  upon  him." 
We  Gascons  have  our  faults,  as  all  peoples  have, 
but  there  is  no  use  in  making  little  faults  into  big 
ones.  I  think  the  worst  fault  my  fellow  Gascons 


We  Take  Ourselves  Seriously      97 

have  is  that  they  are  not  idealistic  enough — they  are 
too  practical,  too  utilitarian;  they  live  too  close  to 
the  ground,  they  tend  to  be  too  materialistic.  How 
much  I  have  lamented  this — I,  who  believe  in  the 
reality  of  spiritual  things,  and  would  lift  men  to  the 
height  of  that  vision  which  is  not  of  this  world.  But 
I  find  it  difficult  For,  from  the  long  stress  of  cir 
cumstances,  I  find  my  fellow-Gascons  too  insensible 
to  the  loftier  ideals  that  would  verily  transfigure  all 
their  lives,  if  they  would  but  let  them!  I  suppose 
it  is  this  practical  spirit  that  blinds  their  eyes  to 
beauty,  when  God  has  bestowed  it  upon  them  so 
plentifully  in  the  wonder  of  our  skies  and  hills.  So, 
while  we  have  had  great  men  of  affairs,  we  have  had 
few  great  poets,  and  no  great  school  of  art;  and  they 
say  that  even  our  famous  skill  as  narrators  is  spoiled 
by  our  want  of  artistic  instinct,  our  vigorous  dis 
order,  our  lack  of  form.  I  agree,  that  is  one  of  our 
faults,  surely. 

And  yet,  not  all  Gascons  are  materialistic  and 
utilitarian,  and  Gascony  has  given  the  world  great 
idealists,  artists  also,  in  their  way,  that  all  mankind 
has  been  ready  enough  to  honor.  There  was 
Fenelon — his  fame,  at  least,  is  secure!  Then, 
there  was  the  Gascon  Montesquieu,  philosopher  and 
profound  satirist  that  he  was,  who,  in  spite  of  his 
disorderly  style,  transmuted  such  dry  things  as  poli 
tics  and  jurisprudence  into  glowing  literature.  And 
then,  greater  than  all,  there  was  Montaigne — rather, 
let  me  say  there  Is  Montaigne,  for  he  never  dies. 
He,  too,  came  from  our  Gascony !  The  great  Mon 
taigne  !  Explorer  of  the  human  soul,  impartial  re- 


98  Abbe  Pierre 

porter  of  the  things  of  the  mind!  What  clear 
intelligence!  What  exquisite  feeling!  What  lively 
imagination  I  What  paradoxes !  All  poured  out  in 
that  inimitable  style,  whose  easy  disorder  becomes 
the  highest  art !  There  was  a  man  who  loved  Gas- 
cony,  and  who  showed  it  by  sometimes  using  our 
Gascon  words  because,  he  said,  they  had  the  flavor 
of  his  native  place.  "If  French  cannot  say  it,  Gascon 
will  say  it."  That  is  Montaigne.  I  say  that  he  is 
really  an  artist,  even  though  he  is  hardly  an  idealist 
in  the  usual  sense  of  that  word,  and  though  I  must 
differ  with  him  on  a  great  many  serious  matters. 
Still,  I  find  that  great  man  expressing  my  own 
thoughts  so  many  times,  that  whole  lines  of  his 
writings  come  to  my  pen's  end  without  my  know 
ing  it. 

But  I  do  not  have  to  go  to  these  great  men  of  our 
history  to  find  our  dreamers  and  idealists.  Here 
they  are  and  have  been,  right  in  my  native  village. 
There  was  my  good  friend,  Jean-Louis  Sance. 
There  is  old  Marius  Fontan,  who  has  made  himself 
poor  by  dreaming  overmuch.  Not  to  speak  of  Ger- 
maine,  who  knows  the  inner  beauties  of  the  spirit, 
possessing  many  of  them  within  herself. 

He  who  talks  about  a  people,  let  him  talk  about 
their  virtues;  if  they  have  no  virtues,  they  are  not 
worth  talking  about.  And  the  many  virtues  of  my 
fellow  Gascons  I  see  about  me  every  day  in  the  lives 
I  have  learned  to  love  and  to  glorify  by  a  sympa 
thetic  understanding.  Can  any  one  help  finding  joy 
in  their  amiability,  their  zest  in  living,  their  vivacity 
(despite  their  seriousness),  which  sometimes  makes 


We  Take  Ourselves  Seriously      99 

them  quick-tempered,  it  is  true — but,  nevertheless, 
so  likable;  their  courage,  their  persistence,  their  so 
ciable  humor,  nowhere  so  evident  as  in  their  talka 
tiveness.  For  we  Gascons  love  talk,  and  are  famed 
for  the  ease  with  which  we  accomplish  it.  I  suppose 
the  desire  for  self-expression  is,  after  all,  the  begin 
ning  of  all  art — so  there  is  hope  for  us  yet!  Our 
peasants  in  the  fields  even  talk  to  their  oxen 
and  pigs  and  geese.  I  know  a  little  lame  girl 
that  goes  by  my  garden  gate  every  day,  driving  her 
cows  to  and  from  the  pasture,  and  she  is  always 
talking  to  them.  Poor,  lonely  little  Rosette ! — it  is 
about  the  only  communion  she  has  with  any  creature. 
Her  father  is  cruel  to  her.  He  it  is  who  beat  her 
and  made  her  lame. 

If  one  wants  to  know  what  Gascons  are  really  like 
at  their  best,  one  should  see  that  wonderful  play, 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac.  I  have  very  seldom  gone  to 
theaters,  but  I  went  to  see  this  play  several  times  in 
Paris,  when  the  great  Coquelin  was  alive.  Once  I 
took  my  colleague,  the  Abbe  Rivoire,  because,  as  I 
told  him,  the  whole  play  is  a  celebration  of  good 
Gascon  traits,  but  most  of  all,  of  good  Gascon  cour 
age.  Cyrano  himself — ah,  there  is  a  tremendous 
Gascon  for  you,  in  spite  of  his  nose,  which  is  a  little 
more  Gascon  than  most  Gascon  noses  really  are. 
Cyrano! — poet,  philosopher,  musician,  soldier,  com 
rade  of  D'Artagnan,  himself  another  D'Artagnan 
transfigured  by  a  poet's  soul !  The  very  name — De 
Bergerac — robust  and  high-sounding,  savors  of  Gas- 
cony. 

I  repeat,  if  one  wants  to  find  all  the  good  Gascon 


IOO  Abbe  Pierre 

traits  glorified,  one  should  go  and  see  that  play. 
Bravery  worth  boasting  of?  How  Cyrano  speaks  of 
the  bold  cadets  of  Gascony,  swaggering  boastfully, 
with  their  eyes  like  eagles',  their  fierce  mustaches, 
their  souls  drunk  with  fame  and  glory !  Readiness 
for  any  situation?  Cyrano  knows  well  that  in  these 
same  cadets  of  his  "the  hero  that  sleeps  in  Gascon 
blood  is  ever  ready  to  awake !"  Gascon  strategy 
against  great  odds?  It  is  De  Guiche  who  says  to 
Cyrano,  "I  know  you  love  to  fight  against  five-score." 
Gascon  presence  of  mind?  Well,  in  this  play,  one 
shall  learn  that  there  is  "nothing  more  dangerous 
than  a  rational  Gascon."  Gascon  pride?  Cyrano 
speaks  of  his  own  as  a  matter  of  course,  right  at  the 
beginning  of  things.  Idealism?  That  is  in  the  play, 
too,  not  only  in  Cyrano,  valiantly  generous,  idealist 
to  the  core;  but  if  to  dream  of  the  poetry  of  home 
and  native  land  through  the  moving  power  of  music 
is  a  sort  of  idealism,  those  cadets  of  his  are  idealistic, 
too;  for  when,  in  the  forlorn  and  famished  camp, 
the  old  man  plays  on  the  flute  the  dear  remembered 
airs  of  Gascony,  it  seems  to  them  the  flute  of  the 
woods  that  plays  the  love-song  of  the  wandering 
goatherds;  through  it  speaks  the  valley,  the  wet 
landes,  the  forest,  the  sunburned  shepherd-boy  with 
scarlet  beret,  the  dusk  of  evening  on  the  gently-flow 
ing  river — 

"9Tis  Gascony!    Hark,  Gascons,  to  the  music!" 

Beyond  denial,  Gascony  is  there  in  Edmond  Ros 
tand's  great  play.     Since  Paris  has  seen  it,  it  knows 


We  Take  Ourselves.  $efiously 

at  last  the  true  qualities  of  Gascons  as  it  never  did 
before.  I  am  glad  of  that,  for  it  is  a  fine  thing,  not 
only  for  Parisians,  but  for  the  world. 

Since  I  find  myself  writing  in  this  way,  I  may 
as  well  put  down  that  I  sometimes  think  the  poet 
Heine  understood  us  better  than  many  of  our  crit 
ics.  He  thought  that  we  Gascons  had  all  the  great 
traits  of  our  France  carried  to  their  highest,  and 
once  spoke  of  France  itself  as  "the  Gascony  of 
Europe!" 

What  better  praise  is  there  for  a  Gascon,  or  in 
deed,  for  a  Frenchman,  than  that? 


Chapter  XIII :  The  Little  Doctor 

I  HAD  just  finished  writing  all  this  when  I  was 
disturbed  by  the  tremendous  blowing  of  a  horn 
— three  or  four  lusty  blasts,  reminding  one  of 
a  ship  in  a  fog,  hoarse  and  insistent,  and  not  to  be 
denied.  Then  came  a  loud  rattle  and  an  ominous 
grinding  noise,  and  all  was  quiet  again.  I  emerged 
from  my  garden-house  just  in  time  to  see  my  friend, 
Dr.  Dousset,  the  mayor  of  our  village,  stepping 
down  from  his  automobile  in  front  of  my  gate. 

That  automobile  of  his  makes  so  much  noise  that 
one  might  easily  mistake  it  for  a  thing  much  larger 
than  it  is.  Merely  hearing  it  approaching,  one's 
imagination  gets  ready  for  a  large-proportioned  car 
such  as  one  sees  in  Paris;  except  that  even  these  are 
very  modest  in  their  sounds,  compared  with  this  lit 
tle,  one-seated  car  of  the  doctor's.  Along  the  coun 
try  roads,  everybody  knows  that  he  is  coming  when 
he  is  yet  a  long  distance  off;  so,  if  anyone  is  sick, 
somebody  can  be  by  the  road  quite  soon  enough  to 
stop  him.  After  all,  then,  the  noise  has  a  value,  as 
has  everything  in  this  world  when  truly  understood. 

When  one  says  this  car  is  little,  even  then  it  is 
hard  to  realize  how  little  it  is.  And  yet  it  is  a  brave 

102 


The  Little  Doctor  103 

little  car,  although  it  has  only  two  cylinders — short, 
snub-nosed,  with  something  of  the  effect  of  a  bull 
dog;  marvelously  compact,  too,  and  gleaming  with 
brass  trimmings,  for  it  was  made  before  the  war. 
The  doctor  is  forever  tinkering  with  it  and  takes  it 
apart  at  least  once  a  week  in  the  wide  doorway  of 
the  huge  wine-cellar  under  his  house,  where  he  locks 
it  up  at  night.  Lately,  he  found  something  in  the 
engine  broken;  well,  he  simply  threw  it  away  and 
then  put  what  was  left  together  again  in  his  skillful 
manner,  and  all  went  as  well  as  before,  except  for  a 
rattling  sound. 

If  one  looks  just  below  the  wind-shield,  he  will  see 
a  brass  medallion  of  St.  Christophe;  that  is  for  good 
luck.  If  any  symbol  is  capable  of  bringing  good 
luck  to  travelers,  this  of  St.  Christophe  should,  con 
sidering  how  strong  this  Saint  was,  and  how  he  was 
wont  to  carry  people  over  that  dangerous  stream 
without  a  bridge,  once  bearing  the  child  Christ  on 
his  great  shoulders,  as  the  artists  picture  him. 

But  no  one  in  our  canton  would  think  of  ridiculing 
the  doctor's  car.  We  are  really  proud  of  it,  as  some 
thing  in  which  we  have  a  personal  interest.  How 
often  has  it  brought  the  little  doctor  with  all  good 
speed  to  the  bedside  of  some  suffering  peasant  miles 
away!  So  no  one  minds  much  if,  as  he  drives 
through  the  village  streets,  the  chickens  and  geese  run 
in  every  direction  for  their  lives,  and  the  dogs,  bark 
ing  excitedly  at  it,  dodge  out  from  the  wheels  just  in 
time  to  avoid  hasty  death.  Out  in  the  country,  they 
look  upon  it  as  a  sort  of  miracle.  Children  are 
frightened  by  the  approaching  horn,  which  works 


104  Abbe  Pierre 

with  a  crank,  exactly  like  a  coffee-mill — indeed,  the 
children  make  way  for  it  with  alacrity,  jumping  to 
safe  places  behind  hedges  and  trees. 

To-day,  the  doctor  wore  his  old  military  uniform 
of  khaki,  still  looking  neat  and  fresh.  For  the  little 
doctor  was  in  the  war,  and  rose  to  be  a  Medecin 
Major.  They  say  that  Captain  Dousset  did  valiant 
things  at  a  hospital  at  the  front.  I  have  seen  his 
croix  de  guerre,  with  a  star  on  the  ribbon.  He  looks 
well  in  that  uniform  of  his,  even  if  he  is  short  in 
stature,  for  he  is  well-made  and  carries  himself  like 
a  soldier. 

As  he  was  coming  up  my  path,  I  thought  that  if 
there  is  any  one  in  our  village  who  best  represents 
good  Gascon  traits,  it  is  our  doctor.  No  wonder  that 
he  understands  our  peasants  and  that  they  have  an 
honest  affection  for  him,  often  bringing  him  gifts 
of  rabbits,  or  fish,  or  fruits,  or  brandy — or  what 
ever  choice  thing  they  have  on  hand!  For  he  him 
self  comes  of  good  peasant  stock — not  far  away, 
either,  since  his  father's  farm  is  in  Demu,  just  north 
east  of  here,  where  they  send  for  him  frequently, 
which  is  a  great  triumph,  considering  that  one's  na 
tive  place  does  not  always  have  great  regard  for 
one's  abilities.  Pure  Gascon  the  little  doctor  is,  with 
our  Gascon  seriousness,  but  softened  by  a  sense  of 
humor.  His  vivacity  shows  itself  in  his  quick,  ner 
vous  manner  and  in  his  Gascon  talent  for  talking, 
which  is  ever  a  rapid,  decisive  sort  of  talk — the  kind 
that  carries  conviction  with  it. 

Some  faces  one  never  sees  too  often.  The  doc 
tor's  is  one  of  these,  for  one  finds  in  it  alert  intelli- 


The  Little  Doctor  105 

gence  and  kindness  of  heart.  It  is  fine  to  see  his 
brilliant  smile,  and  the  merry  twinkle  in  his  eyes! 
These  same  eyes  are  as  black  as  night,  as  is  also 
his  unruly  hair,  brushed  straight  up  from  a  low 
forehead;  black,  too,  is  his  mustache,  the  ends  turned 
up  aggressively,  but  not  carefully  enough  barbered 
to  make  a  dandy  of  him.  That  large  chin  may  sig 
nify  his  practical  outlook,  which  also  is  Gascon.  No, 
there  is  not  much  of  the  poet  in  our  doctor,  and  I 
sometimes  wonder  if  he  is  as  religious  as  he  should 
be.  For  he  seldom  is  seen  at  mass;  but  this  may 
be  on  account  of  the  sick  people.  Still,  I  have  al 
ways  observed  that  however  busy  our  little  doctor 
may  be  on  a  Sunday  morning,  in  the  afternoon  he  is 
invariably  at  the  cafe,  playing  his  game  of  bridge — 
unless,  indeed,  he  has  gone  fishing. 

Such  is  the  little  doctor,  respected  and  admired  by 
everybody.  Most  of  the  peasants  cheerfully  pay  him 
the  fifteen  francs  in  advance,  which  gives  one  his 
services  for  the  whole  year.  For  the  last  four  years, 
he  has  been  mayor  of  the  commune,  and  it  would  be 
hard  to  elect  any  one  else !  There  was  Monsieur 
Caperan,  who  owns  so  much  land;  he  thought  he 
wanted  to  be  mayor  himself,  and  put  up  a  rival 
ticket  at  the  last  election.  But  what  good  did  it  do? 
He  did  not  get  more  than  three  or  four  votes. 
(Monsieur  Caperan's  house  is  the  one  the  "crows" 
hissed  on  the  night  of  their  procession,  because  he 
would  not  contribute  for  refreshments.)  So  it  is  that 
one  sees,  and  will  see  for  some  time,  on  a  pole  in 
front  of  the  little  doctor's  house,  a  large,  wooden 


io6  Abbe  Pierre 

shield,  painted  with  laurel  branches  and  a  gold  crown : 

COMITE  D'ACTION 

REPUBLICAINE 

DR.   DOUSSET 

MAIRE 

Over  it  is  a  cluster  of  French  flags.  It  was  a  sight 
worth  while  to  see  the  two  great  May-poles  they 
planted  there  after  the  last  election. 

"Good  morning,  Monsieur  1'Abbe!  I  stop  to  ask 
if  you  will  come  to  our  house  to  dinner  to-morrow?" 

I  made  haste  to  accept. 

While  the  doctor  was  rolling  a  cigarette,  he  was 
glancing  about  my  garden.  Finally,  he  looked  be 
yond  the  fig  tree,  where  the  bench  is,  to  the  highest 
point. 

"What  are  those  boards  you  have  lying  over 
there,  Monsieur  1'Abbe?  They  look  new." 

I  then  told  him  how  I  was  planning  to  make  a 
little  pavilion  there,  where  I  should  have  yet  an 
other  place  to  study  and  write — especially  when  my 
father  wants  to  tinker  at  that  work-bench  of  his  in 
the  garden-house,  when  his  noise  disturbs  me  con 
siderably.  I  added  that  the  view  is  better  there  than 
anywhere  else. 

"There  will  be  a  little  window,  too,"  I  said,  "look 
ing  toward  Sabazan." 

"It  will  be  very  small,  will  it  not?" 

Very  small,  I  told  him — just  large  enough  to  sit 


The  Little  Doctor  107 

in  and  be  protected  from  the  sun  and  rain.  Per 
haps  not  even  a  door. 

I  do  not  think  the  little  doctor  thought  it  very 
practical,  but  he  did  not  say  so,  as  he  is  always  po 
lite,  in  spite  of  his  brusqueness.  He  only  started 
down  the  path  to  the  gate,  calling  back, 

"We  shall  expect  you  to-morrow — a  midi!" 

I  was  glad  to  be  invited.  To-morrow.  It  will  be 
the  fifteenth  day  of  June,  the  day  of  St.  Germaine — 
Germaine  Sance's  fete-day.  Of  course,  the  dinner  is 
to  celebrate  that.  They  had  thought  of  me  as  an 
old  friend  of  the  family. 

Yes,  I  was  glad  they  had  not  forgotten  me ! 


Chapter  XIV:  The  House  on  the  Road  of 
the  Madonna 

I  FIND  I  sometimes  write  of  the  little  doctor's 
house,  and  sometimes  of  Germaine's  house,  al 
though,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  are  one  and 
the  same.  I  suppose  that  a  well-ordered  mind  should 
ever  have  the  same  name  for  the  same  things — yet, 
language  is  made  richer  by  variety,  is  it  not?  There 
are  synonyms.  One's  imagination  would  be  much 
narrowed  if  it  were  always  restricted  to  the  same 
words;  and,  like  Montaigne,  "I  am  one  of  those 
that  feel  a  very  great  conflict  and  power  of  imagi 
nation." 

It  was  perfectly  natural  that,  fourteen  years  ago, 
our  Doctor  Dousset,  then  young  and  untried,  fell  in 
love  with  and  married  so  attractive  a  girl  as  Marthe, 
the  sister  of  Germaine;  perfectly  natural,  too,  that 
the  young  couple  should  start  their  lives  together 
in  the  same  great  house  with  the  parents,  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Jean-Louis  Sance;  and  perfectly  nat 
ural  that  after  Monsieur  Sance  was  laid  to  rest  in 
the  cemetery  on  the  hill,  they  all  should  continue 
living  there.  In  those  days,  too,  there  was  the  other 
sister,  Angele — she  who  is  now  married  and  lives 
in  Bordeaux. 

108 


House  on  Road  of  the  Madonna    109 

Assuredly,  there  is  plenty  of  room  in  that  house 
for  two  or  three  families!  Why,  it  must  be  as 
much  as  one  hundred  feet  long — and  then,  contin 
uing  it,  is  the  building  for  the  grape-crusher  and 
wine-press  and  the  huge  vats — a  building  at  least  as 
long  as  the  house !  And  all  made  of  stone  faced 
with  plaster,  the  house  roofed  with  slate  from  the 
Pyrenees,  and  the  rest  with  red  tile.  And  that  is 
not  all.  Back  in  the  yard  is  the  immense  stone  barn 
for  cask-making  and  repairing;  then  another  stone 
barn  beside  it  for  the  carriages;  and  back  of  this, 
the  stalls  for  the  oxen  and  the  horses,  and  even 
sleeping  rooms  for  the  drivers !  And  then  one  has 
not  spoken  of  the  extensive  flower  garden  on  the 
other  side  of  the  driveway,  and  the  vegetable  garden 
back  of  that,  and  the  orchards  back  of  that,  and  the 
vineyards  all  around! 

The  grandfather  of  Germaine,  who  built  all  these 
things,  was  a  man  of  big  ideas.  Once  he  actually 
started  a  bank  in  Aignan;  and  he  built  a  steam  mill 
for  grinding  flour  near  the  Chateau  de  Lasalle 
south  of  the  village. 

And  Germaine's  father  was  like  him.  But  he  has 
been  gone  now  these  four  years,  and  things  are  not 
the  same  as  they  were.  There  are  no  horses  any 
more,  and  the  old  carriages  rest  in  the  dark  barn 
unused,  and  the  cask-making  has  stopped,  although 
one  can  still  see  some  of  the  immense  casks  in  the 
cellar  underneath  the  house,  where  the  deserted  lit 
tle  office  of  the  winery  is  overlaid  with  cobwebs  and 
dust.  Even  the  vineyards  are  most  of  them  sold, 
for  in  the  last  days  of  Jean-Louis  Sance,  he  lost 


110  Abbe  Pierre 

nearly  all  he  had,  and  his  widow  finds  it  hard  to 
keep  things  going.  And,  of  course,  a  doctor,  who 
is  a  mayor  as  well,  has  not  time  to  continue  the 
great  business  of  wine-making  and  attend  to  his 
patients  also. 

From  the  high  ridge  of  the  Margouet  road  to  the 
east,  one  sees  this  cluster  of  buildings  gleaming  in 
the  sunshine,  at  the  edge  of  the  village,  by  the  Road 
of  the  Madonna,  the  six  dormer  windows  of  the 
house  peeping  above  the  trees,  and  high  above  all 
the  two  slender  poplars  in  front  of  the  garden.  I 
have  seen  these  two  poplars  clear  from  Sabazan. 

I  am  glad  that  Germaine's  house  does  not  face  the 
street,  but  the  garden  to  the  right,  which  I  think  is 
always  the  best  arrangement.  As  one  enters  the 
generous  wrought-iron  gates,  that  swing  upon  high, 
stone  pillars,  one  notices  a  long,  rectangular  pond 
between  the  garden  and  the  road.  Germaine  fell  in 
that  pond  when  she  was  about  seven  years  old,  and 
was  almost  drowned.  She  had  been  watering  the 
geraniums  and  had  just  started  up  the  three  stone 
steps  that  lead  from  the  pond,  after  having  filled 
her  watering-can,  when  she  slipped.  Her  grand 
mother,  who  was  knitting  on  a  bench  near  by,  heard 
the  splash  and  looked,  and  there  was  little  Germaine, 
half  sinking,  half  floating — oh,  there  was  excitement 
enough !  A  cask-maker  came  from  the  barn,  at 
tracted  by  the  cries,  very  leisurely,  too,  for  that  was 
his  way,  and  waded  into  the  pond  up  to  his  waist. 
Then,  because  he  had  heard  that  drowning  people 
pull  their  rescuers  down  with  them  if  they  are  not 
very  careful,  he  extended  merely  his  forefinger  to 


House  on  Road  of  the  Madonna    in 

Germaine,  who  clasped  it  tightly,  and  thus  she  was 
saved;  without  doubt,  it  was  a  big,  sturdy  fore 
finger,  for  Germaine  remembers  it  very  vividly.  She 
also  remembers  that  when  she  was  being  dried  in  the 
kitchen,  it  came  to  her  to  say  that  even  if  she  had 
drowned,  she  was  ready  to  appear  before  God,  since 
she  had  only  just  then  come  from  confession !  Imag 
ine  that  from  a  child  of  seven !  And  another  mem 
ory,  precious  forever,  is  the  frantic  hug  and  kiss  of 
her  dear  old  grandmother,  usually  so  grave  and 
sedate,  and  not  often  given  to  expressing  her  emo 
tions.  Dear  old  lady !  She,  too,  now  lies  in  a  sunny 
corner  of  the  gray  wall  in  the  cemetery  by  my  vine 
yard. 

Then  there  are  the  Dorothy  Perkins  roses,  simple- 
hearted  and  glad,  blushing  a  rich  pink,  scrambling 
in  mad  disorder  over  the  pillars  of  the  gateway,  and 
up  the  slender  iron  railings  by  the  stone  stairs  to 
the  wide  entrance,  over  which  the  hospitable  mar 
quise  casts  its  shade. 

Strange  to  say,  the  most  interesting  part  of  the 
house  for  me  is  not  the  roomy  hall,  nor  even  the  cool 
salon  with  its  old  Gaveau  piano,  nor  the  long  dining 
room,  with  its  windows  looking  out  towards  the  sun 
sets — no,  not  these,  but  the  great  kitchen  in  the  back. 
As  a  boy,  I  saw  it  fairly  often.  There  it  is  one 
finds  the  most  interesting  things  of  all,  although 
this  may  seem  to  stress  the  earthly  side  of  life  too 
much.  But  one  can  discover  poetry  anywhere  if  he 
looks  for  it,  and  for  some  reason  I  find  it  in  this  big 
kitchen  more  than  anywhere  else — unless  it  is  the 
disused  and  dusty  attic  that  runs  the  whole  length  of 


112  Abbe  Pierre 

the  house  and  contains  the  worn-out  relics  of  several 
generations. 

It  seems  incredible  that  one  can  get  so  many  fas 
cinating  things  in  this  one  room  of  a  kitchen,  until 
one  realizes  that  it  is  by  far  the  largest  room;  the 
only  room,  indeed,  that  occupies  the  whole  width  of 
the  house.  It  has  not  a  stone  floor,  as  has  Monsieur 
Fabre's  and  many  others  around  here;  nor  has  it  an 
earthen  floor  like  old  Marinette's  and  so  many  of 
the  peasants' — no,  this  floor,  built  by  Grandfather 
Sance,  is  of  wood,  being  on  the  first  story  above  the 
ground.  Big?  There  is  space  for  a  massive  table 
of  thick  boards  running  almost  the  full  length  of  the 
room,  with  a  row  of  benches  beside  it  along  the  wall 
— a  table  so  large  that  all  the  cask-makers  and  work 
ers  in  the  fields  ate  here  in  the  old  times.  How  the 
high  rafters  used  to  echo  with  their  hearty  jests  and 
free  laughter!  Full-throated  people  they  were — 
full-stomached,  too,  one  can  swear,  when  they  arose 
from  that  table  to  clatter  out  down  the  stone  steps 
back  to  their  work. 

For  the  rest,  this  kitchen  is  like  most  of  our  Gas 
con  kitchens — I  am  sure  that  you,  my  dear  Abbe 
Rivoire,  never  saw  one  like  it  about  Paris!  From 
the  ceiling  are  suspended  high  in  air  two  long,  wide 
shelves,  as  long  as  the  table;  on  one  of  them  pot 
after  pot  made  of  yellow  earthenware,  big-bellied, 
with  a  handle  on  each  side.  They  are  filled  with 
grease  for  the  cooking;  and  side  by  side  with  these, 
pots  of  pickled  goose,  and  other  mysterious  jars 
with  goodness  knows  what.  And  on  the  other  shelf, 
immense  round  loaves  of  bread  in  a  long  row,  weigh- 


House  on  Road  of  the  Madonna    113 

ing  at  least  ten  pounds  each  I  I  have  found  that  we 
Gascons  eat  more  bread  than  do  Parisians — much 
more.  Bread  in  the  soup — large  quantities — that, 
we  think,  lays  a  solid  foundation  for  a  meal,  which 
cannot  be  excelled!  Then  plenty  of  bread  all 
through  the  courses,  and  more  bread  with  the  fruit — 
no  wonder  we  Gascons  are  a  sturdy  race!  Bread 
between  meals,  too,  rubbed  with  garlic,  and  some 
times  seasoned  with  oil  and  salt  and  a  little  vinegar. 
Eat  that  with  a  juicy  pear  or  some  grapes ! 

One  can  easily  see  why  we  make  the  sign  of  the 
cross  whenever  a  new  loaf  is  cut. 

But  I  find  the  real  poetry  of  a  kitchen  like  this 
in  the  huge  fireplace,  blackened  with  use,  before 
which  Dick,  the  hunting  dog,  likes  to  lie  and  dream 
by  the  hour,  although  more  often  than  not  he  is  in 
the  way  and  invites  many  a  vehement  scolding  for 
stretching  his  long  body  on  the  busiest  part  of  the 
hearth.  Such  a  fireplace!  With  its  colossal,  black 
andirons;  with  its  stout  chains  hanging  over  the 
flame,  with  hooks  for  the  kettles;  and  with  its  iron 
bases  of  different  shapes  for  the  pots.  In  a  corner 
of  the  chimney,  hams  are  suspended  in  winter;  and 
delectable  they  are  when  they  come  out  fully  smoked 
and  mellowed  in  the  early  spring!  There  in  the 
chimney,  too,  is  the  wooden  salt-box,  whose  lid  is 
forever  being  lifted  to  flavor  the  seductive  concoc 
tions  simmering  in  the  pots  beneath.  And  there  is 
the  spit,  slowly  revolving  by  means  of  an  ingenious 
spring  wound  up  in  one  end,  which  supplants  the  old- 
fashioned  kind  turned  by  hand — unless  one  has  still 
another  sort  I  heard  about  the  other  day  from  the 


114  Abbe  Pierre 

little  doctor  himself,  who  visited  an  ancient  house 
out  in  the  country.  There  he  found  an  old  spit,  no 
longer  used,  to  be  sure,  which  was  turned  by  a  re 
volving  cage,  in  which  a  small  dog  tread  everlasting 
steps,  like  a  squirrel.  The  man  that  invented  that 
had  an  active  mind! 

Next  to  the  fireplace,  I  like  to  look  at  the  shining 
array  of  pans  of  copper  and  brass,  all  in  order, 
hanging  on  the  wall  over  the  charcoal  stove.  And 
then  the  red,  earthen  dishes,  large  and  small;  most 
interesting  of  all  these,  the  heavy  jugs  with  a  spout 
attached,  for  drinking  water,  and  holding  ten  quarts 
at  least.  Thick  and  cool  they  are ;  and  it  is  a  pictur 
esque  sight  to  see  Marinette  carrying  one  on  her 
head  from  the  well.  But  they  are  getting  rare  these 
days. 

And  what  a  miscellany  of  other  romantic  things 
all  around!  Yonder  is  the  wire  basket  for  shaking 
the  salad;  and  there  are  the  big  scales;  and  beside 
them  the  coffee-roaster  turned  with  a  crank,  and  big 
baskets  of  all  sorts  hanging  here  and  there,  and  the 
large  goose  wings  for  cleaning  the  hearth,  and  the 
tall  clock,  generations  old,  that  is  ever  stopping  and 
never  keeps  just  the  right  time ;  and  the  odd-shaped, 
Gascon  lamps  of  shining  brass,  hung  on  the  chimney 
piece,  not  to  speak  of  the  strings  of  garlic  hanging 
over  in  the  corner;  and,  near  the  window  where  it  is 
cool,  the  big  piece  of  fat  used  to  season  soup — and 
add  to  this  that  in  winter  there  are  long  rows  of 
sausages  suspended  from  the  rafters  in  an  enticing 
array ! 

And  how  one  is  reminded  of  chestnut  time  by  that 


House  on  Road  of  the  Madonna    115 

long-handled  pan  over  in  the  corner,  with  holes  in 
the  top !  There  is  nothing  better,  to  my  thinking, 
along  in  October  and  November,  than  roasted  chest 
nuts — unless,  indeed,  it  is  chestnuts  boiled,  that  is, 
boiled  with  the  leaf  or  twig  of  a  fig  tree,  just  to  give 
them  that  subtle  flavor  which  nothing  else  lends.  A 
merry  festivity  it  always  is  when  the  peasants  gather 
in  each  other's  kitchens  or  barns  to  husk  the  maize 
and  eat  boiled  chestnuts  and  drink  the  wine  that  has 
just  been  made  and  has  not  yet  had  time  to  fer 
ment  I  What  stories  one  hears  at  such  times  I  What 
gossip,  too! 

It  is  then  getting  near  the  time  when  one  may 
have  use  for  those  bed-warmers  hanging  over  there 
by  the  attic  stairway.  Both  kinds  are  hanging  in 
Madame  Sance's  kitchen;  the  kind  with  a  long 
handle,  an  elegantly  polished  copper  pan  at  the  end, 
with  a  lid  on  it,  which  one  fills  with  coals  and  passes 
over  the  sheets;  and  the  kind  which  consists  of  a 
long,  open  oval  frame,  in  the  middle  of  which  is 
suspended  a  pan  for  live  coals,  and  which  one  covers 
up  lengthwise  in  the  bed  until  it  is  good  and  warm 
and  inhabitable — the  kind  called  a  "monk" — I  have 
often  wondered  just  why,  for  what  similitude  there 
is  between  a  monk  and  a  bed-warmer  it  is  at  first 
hard  to  see !  Still,  it  may  be  because  the  frame  swells 
out  in  the  middle  like  the  portly  figures  of  monks  one 
sometimes  sees  in  pictures.  Yes,  it  must  be  because 
of  the  shape. 

But  the  name  is  unfortunate,  for  it  is  related  that 
over  in  the  village  of  Nogaro  many,  many  years 
ago — it  might  have  been  in  the  Middle  Ages,  for  all 


Il6  Abbe  Pierre 

I  am  aware — a  real  monk  came  to  the  inn  and  asked 
for  lodging  for  the  night.  He  went  to  bed  early  in 
the  front  room.  Soon  after,  another  traveler  came, 
and  the  landlord  ordered  the  maid  to  put  the  "monk" 
in  the  back  room,  meaning,  of  course,  to  put  the 
bed-warmer  there  in  the  bed.  But  the  maid  was  a 
new  one,  and  intensely  ignorant,  and  so  the  real 
monk  found  himself  awakened  by  this  silly  maid  and 
put  out  of  his  bed  into  the  back  room,  into  a  bed 
that  was  exceeding  cold.  Our  monk  had  just  ceased 
shivering  and  had  settled  down  again  for  the  night, 
when  a  third  traveler  came,  at  which  the  proprietor 
now  bade  the  maid  to  put  the  "monk"  in  the  yellow 
room.  The  wretched  maid  again  awoke  the  real 
monk  and  insisted  that  he  shift  himself  to  this  other 
cold  bed,  where  he  had  need  for  much  fortitude  to 
retain  his  Christian  charity  and  spiritual  temper. 
And  thus  it  went  all  the  night  long.  But  to  me,  this 
story  uncovers  a  degree  of  meekness  in  this  monk 
which  I  cannot  imagine  the  most  saintlike  monk  to 
possess.  True,  he  unwittingly  did  a  Christian  deed 
and  one  worthy  of  all  praise  in  well  warming  the 
beds  of  all  these  travelers  in  turn,  but  it  was  what 
one  might  call  a  work  of  supererogation.  It  shows 
the  subtle  dangers  that  lurk  in  language.  It  may  be, 
as  I  said  in  the  first  place,  a  well-ordered  mind  should 
have  the  same  name  for  the  same  things,  even  at 
the  expense  of  that  imagination  for  which  I  was 
pleading,  having  forgotten  entirely  about  this  monk. 
Such,  at  any  rate,  is  the  kitchen  of  Germaine's 
house.  When  we  were  both  boys,  Germaine's  father 
and  I  sometimes  warmed  ourselves  there  by  the  roar- 


House  on  Road  of  the  Madonna    117 

ing  fire  on  bitterly  cold  days.  So  there  are  things 
in  this  kitchen  besides  the  things  one  sees!  I  was 
thinking  of  them  much  to-day  as  I  looked  forward 
to  the  dinner  to-morrow. 

As  I  said,  I  am  glad  they  asked  me  to  come. 


Chapter  XV :  I  Celebrate  a  Saint 


WHAT  a  big  bouquet  of  roses  it  was !  Yel 
low  roses  brought  that  morning  by  Renee, 
the  little  kitchen  girl,  fresh  from  Marinette's 
garden  down  the  road.  We  were  getting  ready  to 
sit  down  to  dinner,  when  Germaine's  mother  pre 
sented  them  to  her,  saying  as  she  did  so, 

"Bonne  fete,  my  little  Maimaine  I" 

"Maimaine"  is  the  pretty  diminutive  adopted  for 
Germaine  when  she  was  a  baby.  I  think  that  there 
was  something  suspiciously  like  tears  in  the  mother's 
eyes,  in  spite  of  their  happy  light,  as  she  bestowed 
upon  her  daughter  a  warm  kiss.  Then  more  kisses 
and  embraces  and  a  "Bonne  fete!"  from  everybody 
else,  and  we  all  seated  ourselves  at  the  long  table, 
where  the  savory  soup  was  already  steaming  in  the 
large  tureen. 

When  I  write  "savory"  about  the  soup,  I  am  using 
the  best  word  imaginable.  When  you  make  soup 
in  Gascony,  you  go  into  the  garden  and  gather  some 
hysop,  and  marjoram,  and  thyme,  and  parsley,  and 
celery-tops,  and  oh,  so  many  other  things  besides — 
all  of  which  give  it  a  flavor,  you  may  be  sure.  In 
spite  of  the  great  chefs,  one  never  gets  such  soup  as 

118 


I  Celebrate  a  Saint  119 

that  in  Paris,  at  least  according  to  my  taste.  Why, 
the  soup  in  Gascony  is  such  a  memorable  and  char 
acteristic  thing  that  when  the  Gascons  in  Paris 
wanted  to  form  a  club,  they  actually  named  it  after 
one  of  our  soups,  La  Garbure,  a  winter  soup  made 
of  green  cabbage  leaves  and  pickled  pork  or  goose, 
and  all  the  herbs  I  mentioned,  too ! 

I  was  the  only  guest — one  would  hardly  call  Ger- 
maine's  sister,  Angele,  from  Bordeaux,  a  guest! — 
and  they  put  me  by  Germaine  at  one  end  of  the  table, 
where  I  could  fully  enjoy  those  wonderful  roses,  for 
Germaine  had  placed  the  vase  right  in  front  of  us. 
At  the  other  end  of  the  table  was  the  little  doctor's 
wife,  between  her  boy,  Robert  (a  splendid  little  fel 
low  of  twelve),  and  Henri,  Germaine's  brother. 
Then,  on  opposite  sides  of  the  table,  facing  each 
other,  were  Germaine's  mother  and  the  doctor,  on 
whose  right  was  Angele.  The  doctor  had  arrived 
just  in  time  for  dinner  from  a  visit  to  a  peasant  who 
had  fallen  from  a  cherry  tree.  Then  he  had  been 
stopped  on  his  way  home  by  an  urgent  summons  to 
the  house  of  our  cure,  who  had  met  with  an  accident, 
the  nature  of  which  I  hastened  to  inquire. 

"Nothing  serious,"  answered  the  doctor,  as  he 
poured  me  out  some  white  wine;  "only  he  is  growing 
infirm  and  needs  some  one  to  watch  over  him.  This 
morning  he  was  walking  in  his  little  garden  and 
stepped  on  some  old  boards  that  covered  his  cistern. 
They  broke,  and  he  fell  in.  That  is  the  second  time 
this  summer  he  has  fallen  in  the  water." 

I  had  heard  about  the  other  time  when  I  first 
came  home.  It  had  rained  a  great  deal,  and  the 


120  Abbe  Pierre 

ditches  by  the  roadside  were  full  of  water.  The 
Abbe  Castex  was  sent  for  to  take  the  Sacrament  to 
a  dying  man  in  the  country.  He  started  out  on  foot, 
why,  I  don't  know.  They  say  a  peasant  found  him, 
struggling  in  a  flooded  ditch  by  the  road  to  Plaisance, 
holding  the  Sacred  Host  high  above  his  head  to  keep 
it  dry. 

I  suppose  Robert,  for  some  inexplicable  reason, 
found  something  humorous  in  all  this,  for  glancing 
up  at  his  end  of  the  table,  I  saw  that  he  was  laughing. 
One  can  hardly  blame  the  boy  for  his  lack  of  rever 
ence,  when  even  Madame  Lacoste,  pious  as  she  is, 
has  been  heard  to  say, 

"The  priest  is  getting  old  and  foolish !" 

As  for  myself,  I  reserve  judgment.  I  think  he  is 
more  sensible  than  many  men,  though  perhaps  not 
so  sensible  as  most  men  ought  to  be. 

While  the  radishes  and  the  butter  were  being 
passed  around,  Angele  told  Robert  that  she  had  a 
rare  postage  stamp  for  him. 

This  Robert  is  a  small  edition  of  his  father,  the 
doctor,  and  looks  wonderfully  well  in  his  blue,  lycee 
uniform,  with  its  double  row  of  brass  buttons. 

"He  got  a  stamp  the  other  day  from  his  cousin, 
Raoul,  in  Tunis,"  remarked  Germaine's  mother. 

I  asked  if  he  was  still  with  his  regiment  there. 

She  replied  that  he  was.  The  doctor  added  that 
he  was  as  rough  and  profane  and  as  much  of  a  dare 
devil  as  ever,  from  all  he  could  learn. 

"But,"  remonstrated  Germaine,  "he  is  not  so  bad 
as  people  say.  Every  night  he  prays  that  little 


/  Celebrate  a  Saint  12 1 

prayer  mother  always  repeats  before  she  goes  to 
sleep." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Madame  Sance.  "You  see,"  she 
went  on,  turning  to  me,  "I  learned  this  prayer  when 
I  was  a  little  girl.  I  suppose  I  should  have  out 
grown  it  long  ago,  and  I  was  ashamed  for  people  to 
know  I  still  said  it,  until  I  heard  Raoul  mention  that 
he,  too,  repeated  it  every  night." 

I  asked  how  the  prayer  went.  So,  while  we  waited 
for  little  Renee  to  clear  the  table  for  the  chicken, 
Germaine's  mother  said  it  for  me  slowly;  and  I  did 
not  mention  that  I  myself  was  taught  it  when  a  boy, 
and  often  said  it  even  now  in  memory  of  my  mother. 

Here  is  the  way  it  goes: 

In  my  bed  I  place  myself, 
In  my  bed  I  lay  me  down; 
Should  death  come  to  me  this  night, 
God  be  to  me  my  sacrament. 
St.  John,  St.  Luke,  and  St.  Matthew! 
Accept  the  good  God  for  my  father, 
And  the  Virgin  for  my  mother, 
And  the  Angels  for  my  brothers t 
The  Archangels  for  my  friends. 
'Good  night,  little  Jesus,  I  go  to  sleep! 

I  think  that  no  one  need  become  so  old  as  to  be 
ashamed  of  it.  It  always  brings  a  lump  to  my  throat 
when  I  say  it,  and  tears  are  never  far  away,  I  know 
not  why.  It  is  often  that  way  with  the  simple,  beau 
tiful  things  of  this  world;  and  this  prayer  does  not 
belong  only  to  this  world,  if  it  comes  from  a  heart  as 
sweet  and  pure  as  that  of  Germaine's  mother! 


122  Abbe  Pierre 

At  this  point,  little  Renee,  clad  in  her  new,  red 
dress,  brought  in  the  chicken.  She  belongs  to  a  poor 
peasant  family  that  lives  on  the  side  of  the  hill  near 
the  forest.  She  is  only  fourteen  years  old,  but  very 
capable  for  all  that.  Her  face  is  pinched,  and  her 
eyes  are  large  and  sad,  but  I  think  she  will  be  beau 
tiful  some  day.  Now  that  she  is  with  the  doctor's 
family,  she  will  have  enough  to  eat  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life!  For  all  the  doctor's  skill,  it  is  little 
Renee  that  knows  best  how  to  cure  chickens  of  the 
pip.  Lately,  she  had  two  tiny  patients  in  the  kitchen 
for  over  a  week.  They  made  their  home  in  the 
warm  ashes  by  the  fireplace,  and  she  tenderly  nursed 
them  through  their  ailments  until  they  could  rejoin 
their  noisy  family  by  the  garden  wall. 

I  mentioned  that  at  Margouet  I  saw  my  old  friend, 
Marius  Fontan,  and  that  he  was  looking  worn  and 
ill. 

"Poorer  than  ever,"  responded  the  doctor.  "If 
he  would  only  write  less  poetry  and  attend  to  his 
farm,  it  would  be  better  for  him." 

"Is  it  true — that  about  the  snake?"  asked  Robert. 

"I  should  not  wonder  at  all,"  I  replied.  "It  is 
like  him." 

"What  is  all  this  about  a  snake?"  inquired  Angele. 

And  then  I  explained  how  Marius  was  walking 
along  the  road  the  other  day,  dreaming,  as  usual,  and 
not  looking  where  he  was  going,  when  he  stepped 
with  his  left  foot  upon  a  snake,  and  was  stung. 
Without  a  single  moment's  hesitation,  he  stamped 
his  right  foot  upon  the  snake's  head  and  ground  it 
into  the  earth. 


I  Celebrate  a  Saint  123 

"That,"  interjected  Henri,  "is  like  the  time  the 
bear  got  loose  from  the  gipsy  camp  beyond  the 
Chateau  de  Lasalle.  Marius  was  going  down  the 
road,  dreaming,  as  you  say,  when  he  bumped  straight 
into  it.  All  he  said  was,  'What  is  this  damned  beast 
doing  here?'  and  went  on,  mumbling  some  patois 
poetry  that  was  in  his  head." 

"I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  the  old  man," 
remarked  the  doctor,  as  he  refilled  my  glass  with 
wine  and  water.  "He  asked  to  be  placed  upon  the 
list  of  destitutes,  so  that  he  could  get  an  allowance 
of  bread.  I  told  him  to  go  to  Castelnavet  and  get 
his  birth  certificate,  in  order  to  make  out  the  papers. 
But  it  is  five  months  now,  and  he  has  been  too  shift 
less  to  go.  And  there  he  is,  living  all  alone  in  that 
tumble-down  house  of  his,  with  nobody  in  the  world 
to  look  after  him." 

"They  say  he  was  handsome  in  his  youth,"  put  in 
Germaine's  mother.  "Grandmother  knew  of  him 
then  and  used  to  think  he  had  a  future." 

I  had  just  been  thinking  of  this  woman,  Ger 
maine's  grandmother,  for,  as  I  had  passed  along  the 
hallway,  I  had  seen  an  old,  red  shawl,  with  fringe 
on  it,  that  used  to  belong  to  her.  Religious  was 
old  Grandmother  Sance,  and  very  strict.  Into  this 
very  dining  room  every  night  of  her  life  the  servants 
were  assembled  at  nine  o'clock  to  kneel  down  on  the 
hard  floor  and  listen  to  a  prayer.  If  there  was  com 
pany  in  the  house,  they,  too,  had  to  join  in  these 
devotions — an  ordeal  they  were  not  likely  to  forget 
soon,  for  the  prayer  always  took  half  an  hour  at 


124  Abbe  Pierre 

least,  and  the  knees  of  even  the  most  pious  became 
impatient! 

While  the  pancakes  were  being  served,  Henri  men 
tioned  his  friend,  Monsieur  Ware,  the  American, 
who  was  to  call  later  in  the  afternoon.  This  gave 
an  opportunity  for  Robert,  little  scamp  that  he  is, 
to  cast  sly  glances  at  Germaine  across  the  table,  and 
for  Henri  to  hint  that  Germaine  had  arrived  at  the 
age  when  girls  get  married.  I  was  glad  that  the 
doctor  silenced  him  by  exclaiming,  "Bo-bo-bo-bo-bo  1" 
which  is  his  usual  way  of  expressing  incredulity  at 
any  matter.  When  he  says,  "Bo-bo-bo-bo-bo  1"  very 
rapidly  and  decisively  like  that,  the  question  is  closed. 

With  the  pancakes,  we  were  drinking  some  ex 
cellent  sweet  wine,  something  like  champagne,  only 
without  the  sparkle,  and  I  thought  that  it  was  about 
time  to  propose  a  toast  to  Germaine  in  honor  of  her 
fete.  I  was  sure  that  I  was  the  proper  one  to  do 
it,  being  used  to  speaking  in  public.  So  I  arose  in 
my  place  and,  lifting  up  my  glass,  I  said, 

"Why  do  we  celebrate  the  day  of  anybody's 
Saint?  It  occurs  to  me  that  it  is  for  the  same  mo 
tives  by  which  we  celebrate  a  birthday.  And  why 
is  that?  There  are  several  reasons.  In  some  cases, 
it  is  to  cheer  one  who  is  approaching  nearer  the  end 
of  life — to  say  to  such  a  person,  'How  young  you 
are  P  Or,  it  may  be  because  he  has  come  so  far  so 
well.  Or,  it  may  be  that  it  furnishes  an  occasion 
when  one  may  express  wishes  for  welfare  during  all 
the  future  years.  But  best  of  all,  we  celebrate  this 
fete  because  in  Germaine,  Madame  Sance  here  gave 


I  Celebrate  a  Saint  125 

to  the  world  a  priceless  gift,  for  which  we  all  are 
thankful." 

I  had  bowed  to  Germaine's  mother  here,  as  was 
proper;  and  now,  raising  my  glass,  I  turned  to  Ger- 
maine,  and  continued, 

"Montaigne  says  somewhere  that  'our  minds  are 
as  full-grown  and  perfectly  jointed  at  twenty  years 
as  they  should  be,  and  promise  as  much  as  they 
can/  and  that  'natural  qualities  and  virtues,  if  they 
have  any  vigorous  or  beauteous  thing  in  them,  will 
produce  and  show  the  same  within  that  time,  or 
never.'  Our  Germaine,  here,  even  if  she  had  not 
one  whole  year  more  before  the  age  Montaigne 
mentions,  would  not  need  to  be  ashamed." 

Then  we  clinked  our  glasses  and  drank  in  silence, 
Germaine  blushing  modestly  behind  her  roses,  but 
deserving  all  I  said,  none  the  less. 

I  heard  young  Robert,  who  is  interested  in  every 
thing,  ask  his  mother  about  the  St.  Germaine  whose 
fete  we  were  observing;  and  I  overheard  her  telling 
him  how  she  was  a  shepherdess,  and  how  she  is  al 
ways  represented  in  statues  with  a  lamb  at  her  feet 
and  her  apron  full  of  roses. 

"She  was  one  of  our  Gascon  saints,"  I  remarked. 

And  then  I  reminded  everybody  (for  here  was 
my  chance)  how  very  poor  she  was,  and  yet  how 
generous;  and  of  the  time  she  took  her  own  small 
portion  of  bread  to  some  needy  peasants,  and  how 
her  cruel  stepmother  saw  her  and  was  going  to  beat 
her,  and  demanded  to  know  what  she  had  in  her 
apron.  Then  the  shepherdess  unfolded  her  apron, 


126  Abbe  Pierre 

and  lo!  from  it  came  tumbling  the  most  beautiful 
roses  I 

All  good  deeds  are  like  that. 

A!  great  plate  of  cherries  from  the  orchard  had 
been  passed  around,  and  the  coffee  had  been  served; 
and  now  Renee  appeared  with  liqueur  glasses  and 
a  gold-topped  bottle  of  creme  d'Armagnac.  The 
label  had  the  name  of  Germaine's  father  printed  on 
it.  This  liqueur  was  of  his  own  invention,  and  so 
exquisite  that  I  think  no  other  quite  attains  to  it.  I 
must  have  praised  it  very  highly,  for  Madame  Sance 
said  she  would  present  me  with  one  of  the  few  bot 
tles  left. 

As  I  was  sipping  it  slowly,  its  golden  seduction 
brought  reflections  upon  the  man  with  whom  the 
secret  of  this  delicious  elixir  had  perished.  Jean- 
Louis  Sance !  How  I  am  forever  missing  his  beloved 
figure  from  our  village!  On  the  wall  was  the  pic 
ture  of  his  strong,  sincere,  generous  face  looking 
down  on  us  all ;  and  out  the  window,  across  the  roofs 
to  the  west,  I  could  clearly  see  the  slender,  sunlit 
cypress  trees  that  mark  the  place  where  he  sleeps 
now.  How  often  would  he  sit  in  the  very  chair 
where  the  doctor  now  presides  at  table  and  look  at 
the  sunsets  that  cast  their  ineffable  glory  on  our 
hills !  I  could  not  avoid  thinking  of  these  things, 
and  of  the  song  he  used  to  like  to  sing  at  cherry  time, 
when  the  luscious  cherries  from  his  own  orchards 
were  passed  around  the  table,  even  as  to-day.  He 
taught  it  to  Angele,  and  she  sometimes  sings  it,  oh, 
so  beautifully! 


I  Celebrate  a  Saint  127 

When  the  song  of  the  time  of  the  cherries  we  sing, 
Gay  nightingales  trill,  and  the  blackbirds  are  whist- 

ling, 

All  making  merry! 

In  the  heads  of  the  girls  there  is  madness  and  folly, 
In  the  hearts  of  their  lovers,  the  sunshine  is  bright. 
When  the  song  of  the  time  of  the  cherries  we  sing, 
Sweeter  than  ever  the  blackbirds  are  whistling! 

Ah,  it  is  brief,  the  time  of  the  cherries! 
When,  two  by  two,  we  dreamingly  gather 
Pendants  of  coral; 

Symbols  of  love  they  are,  looking  like  roses, 
Like  drops  of  blood  as  they  fall  on  the  grasses! 
But  brief,  oh,  so  brief,  the  time  of  the  cherries, 
When  pendants  of  coral  we  dreamingly  gather. 

I  remember  that,  although  some  of  the  words  are 
happy  enough,  the  melody  is  sad,  sad,  as  of  some 
thing  gone  that  will  nevermore  return. 

Even  after  we  had  left  the  dinner  table  and  had 
gone  into  the  salon,  where  the  shutters  were  opened 
wide,  and  where  Angele  sang  to  Germaine's  accom 
paniment,  I  was  still  thinking  of  my  old  friend,  and 
of  what  a  vacancy  the  passing  away  of  a  strong 
man  like  that  makes  in  our  lives.  Yes,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  it  was  Germaine's  fete-day  and  that  I 
ought  to  have  been  cheerful  and  talkative,  I  became 
silent  and  sad,  and  the  big  house  suddenly  seemed 
to  my  poor  heart  empty  and  forsaken,  and  the  sun 
no  longer  shone. 


Chapter  XVI:  Wooden  Shoes 

I  WAS  thinking  this  afternoon  as  I  walked  up  and 
down  one  of  my  garden  paths,  lamenting  that 
the  petals  from  the  last  roses  were  already 
strewn  on  the  grass  (though  it  is  only  the  middle 
of  June),  I  was  thinking,  I  say,  of  what  Henri  said 
at  the  dinner  the  other  day,  that  Germaine  had  ar 
rived  at  the  age  when  girls  think  of  marrying.  I 
remembered  that  some  one  had  said  that  Monsieur 
Ware,  the  American,  was  to  call  that  very  after 
noon  at  Germaine's  house,  and  I  could  not  but  won 
der  if  it  was  his  new  friend,  Henri,  who  was  the 
attraction — or  somebody  else !  Already,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  the  women  of  our  village  are  gossiping  about 
Monsieur  Ware's  frequent  calls,  and  are  wondering 
what  he  can  have  to  say  with  that  broken  French  of 
his. 

Then,  after  I  had  said  my  breviary,  I  was  tying 
some  sweet  peas  to  some  poles  I  had  newly  placed 
for  them  this  very  morning,  when  who  should  I  see 
coming  through  the  gate  but  Monsieur  Ware  him 
self,  covering  the  ground  very  quickly  with  his  bold 
step,  so  that  he  was  up  to  me  almost  before  I  could 
adjust  my  thoughts  for  the  occasion.  He  had  a 

128 


Wooden  Shoes  129 

bundle  under  his  arm,  tied  up  in  an  old  copy  of 
La  France,  and  after  our  greetings  were  over,  he 
hastened  to  show  it  to  me. 

It  proved  to  be  a  pair  of  wooden  shoes. 

"I  bought  them  down  there  in  the  Street  of  the 
Church  from  the  man  that  made  them,"  he  said; 
"Paul  Sarrade,  I  believe  you  call  him.  What  do 
you  think  of  them?" 

I  took  one  of  them  and  looked  it  over  and  told 
him  that  they  were  very  prettily  carved.  For  they 
were  done  exceptionally  well,  and  by  hand,  too,  as 
Paul  always  does  them.  The  toes  turned  up  at  the 
end  very  gracefully,  and  there  was  a  wide,  black, 
glossy  strap  tacked  on  at  the  middle  to  hold  them 
on  the  foot. 

"They  are  not  made  for  work-shoes,'1  I  remarked. 
"They  are  too  low  for  that,  and  much  too  fancy. 
They  are  the  kind  the  peasant  women  wear  for  their 
best.  You  sometimes  see  them  coming  in  on  mar 
ket-day  with  sabots  like  these.  They  wear  them 
over  their  felt  slippers." 

"I  doubt  if  I  can  wear  them  about  here,"  he  said 
laughingly.  "The  peasants  might  think  I  was  mak 
ing  fun  of  a  sacred  institution !  I  think  I  shall  wear 
them,  though,  when  I  get  back  home  in  America — 
in  my  study,  for  instance." 

I  asked  him  why  he  should  carry  these  all  the 
way  from  France,  when  he  could  surely  get  just  as 
good  sabots  in  America. 

This  seemed  to  amuse  Monsieur  David  Ware 
very  much,  for  he  looked  at  me  in  great  surprise, 
and  then  burst  out  in  a  fit  of  merriment  which  I  did 


130  Abbe  Pierre 

not  entirely  like,  for  it  dawned  upon  me  that  per* 
haps  he  was  taking  these  sabots  home  to  show  to  the 
sabot-makers  there  and  to  ridicule  the  kind  poor 
Paul  makes  in  our  little  village  as  being  inferior 
for  some  reason. 

It  was  then  I  learned  that  the  peasants  in  Amer 
ica  do  not  wear  wooden  shoes  at  all,  even  in  the 
fields !  No,  the  peasants  there  wear  shoes  of  leather, 
although  I  should  think  that  sabots  would  be  much 
more  serviceable,  not  only  on  the  roads,  but  plow 
ing  with  the  oxen.  Our  peasants  would  not  wear 
leather,  even  if  they  could  afford  it.  And  wooden 
shoes  are  far  less  expensive. 

Ah,  that  America  is  an  extravagant  country! 

So  Paul's  handiwork  was  going  there  as  a  curi 
osity  !  I  did  not  quite  like  that,  either,  for  it  seemed 
to  me  that,  in  their  ignorance,  the  Americans  might 
make  fun  of  us.  My  resentment  was  increased  by 
what  Monsieur  Ware  said  next. 

"I  think  these  wooden  shoes  are  what  keep  your 
peasants  from  rising  to  the  higher  classes.  They 
literally  weigh  them  down,  so  they  cannot  get  above 
being  peasants  at  all." 

I  ventured  to  ask  how. 

"I  have  watched  your  people  wearing  them.  They 
have  a  decided  effect  upon  one's  walk  and  carriage. 
They  are  so  big  that  one  gets  to  walk  with  his  legs 
spread  a  little  apart;  being  heavy  and  loose,  too, 
you  cannot  raise  your  feet  much  from  the  ground, 
and  you  can't  bend  them,  so  that  you  acquire  a 
shambling,  shuffling  walk  that  dooms  a  man  to  re 
main  a  peasant  for  life.  Oh,  I  have  made  quite  a 


Wooden  Shoes  131 

study  of  the  matter.  There  is  no  doubt  about  it  at 
all — these  sabots  are  a  symbol  of  your  Gascon  peas 
ant  and  his  unchangeable  ways." 

It  always  makes  me  indignant  when  foreigners, 
unsympathetic  with  our  customs,  speak  of  our  great 
peasant  class  in  that  way.  If  one  understood  the 
least  thing  about  our  class  distinctions  in  France, 
one  would  not  be  so  free  in  finding  fault  with  our 
peasants  for  not  rising  easily  above  their  station. 
I  do  not  know  how  it  is  in  America;  but  here  in 
France  such  criticisms  of  our  people  merely  betray 
an  ignorance  of  our  French  ways.  You  cannot  shat 
ter  the  traditions  of  centuries  in  a  day,  nor  is  it  well 
to  do  so. 

I  said  nothing  of  all  this,  however,  because  I  knew 
it  would  be  of  no  use.  I  only  remarked, 

"Then  these  sabots  of  yours  will  be  merely  a  re 
minder  of  our  unfortunate  condition,  will  they  not?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  protested,  seeing  that  he  had  really 
hurt  me.  "Don't  you  remember  I  said  when  I  first 
visited  your  garden  that  I  was  looking  for  something 
worth  writing  a  poem  about?  Well,  here  it  is,  that 
something,  in  these  self-same  sabots." 

This  aroused  my  curiosity,  and  I  said,  perhaps 
rather  boldly, 

"Just  what  are  you  going  to  say  about  our  wooden 
shoes  in  that  poem  of  yours?" 

We  had  been  walking  slowly  along  the  path  that 
leads  to  a  large  pine  tree  on  the  summit  of  my  gar 
den,  and  we  sat  down  in  the  shade  on  those  boards 
out  of  which  I  intend  building  my  little  pavilion. 


132  Abbe  Pierre 

Monsieur  Ware  did  not  speak  for  several  mo 
ments,  and  then  he  answered  musingly, 

"I  shall  write  of  how  one  forever  hears  along 
these  Gascon  roads  the  clatter  of  wooden  shoes — of 
how  one  sees  the  peasants,  young  and  old,  men  and 
women,  plodding  along  through  their  narrow  lives 
in  their  wooden  shoes,  plowing  the  fields  in  wooden 
shoes — wearing  away  the  flagstones  of  their  houses 
with  their  wooden  shoes — I  have  in  mind  a  sort  of 
lyric  of  wooden  shoes,  whose  clack,  clack,  never 
ceases,  beating  a  rhythm  with  the  peasant's  life,  from 
the  cradle  to  the  time  when  he  leaves  his  wooden 
shoes  forever !" 

What  Monsieur  Ware  had  just  said  was  better, 
much  better,  and  I  began  to  think  less  harshly  of 
him,  for  I  perceived  that,  after  all,  he  could  see 
something  of  the  poetry  of  things,  mistaken  as  he 
was  about  some  matters. 

Badly  mistaken,  as  his  very  next  remark  showed. 
For  he  began  to  say  with  all  confidence  that  wooden 
shoes  must  be  cold  in  winter,  since  they  do  not  fit 
snugly  about  the  feet  and  so  would  let  in  the  cold 
air. 

"You  must  study  our  wooden  shoes  still  more," 
I  rejoined.  "They  are  very  warm  in  winter.  Of 
course,  then  you  do  not  see  the  peasants  going  about 
in  them  bare  of  foot  as  you  do  now;  and  besides, 
they  warm  them  before  they  venture  out  by  putting 
hot  coals  in  them  and  rolling  them  around,  and  then 
they  stuff  them  with  straw,  too.  No,  they  are  not 
so  cold  as  you  think." 

I  would  gladly  have  gone  on  telling  Monsieur 


Wooden  Shoes  133 

Ware  many  other  things  worth  while  for  his  poem, 
only  just  fhen  he  happened  to  look  at  his  watch  and 
remembered  he  had  agreed  to  go  to  the  pharmacist's 
to  fetch  some  medicine  to  the  chateau  for  his  sister 
— and  the  afternoon  was  near  spent,  and  she  might 
worry  at  his  long  absence. 

Indeed,  I  could  have  given  many  valuable  hints 
for  that  poem  of  Monsieur  Ware.  For  often  and 
often  have  I  thought  of  these  wooden  shoes  of  ours 
that  clatter  up  the  hills  and  down  again;  that  beat 
out  their  rhythm  on  barren  floors  without  surcease ; 
that,  worn  by  little  children's  feet,  go  pattle-pat,  pod- 
poddle,  after  the  geese  and  cows,  as  they  drive  them 
along  the  winding  roads  to  the  red-roofed  barns. 
What  visions  they  do  indeed  bring,  these  wooden 
shoes!  The  peasant  woman  with  a  loaf  of  bread 
upon  her  head,  returning  from  market  in  her  wooden 
shoes,  knitting  as  she  goes  plack-plack  along  the  hard 
road.  The  poor  father,  burdened  with  his  sorrow, 
climbing  slowly,  plock-plock,  up  the  hard,  stone  stairs 
of  the  little  doctor's  house,  with  the  fear  of  the  death 
of  his  loved  one  in  his  eyes  so  tired  with  vigil.  And 
so  the  visions  come  one  after  another,  without  end. 

It  was  not  so  long  ago  when,  over  the  hills  of 
Gascony,  came  a  cry  from  the  north,  "To  arms  for 
France!"  Ah,  then  tRe  sound  of  the  wooden  shoes 
was  heard,  an  eager  army  of  hurrying  feet !  These 
humble  peasants  of  Gascony — they  left  their  wooden 
shoes  at  a  word  for  the  poilu's  boots  and  the  sword 
of  France!  Chemin  des  Dames,  and  Rheims,  Ver 
dun  !  They  were  there,  Gascons  brave  as  in  the  old 
days  when  they  fought  the  battles  of  kings !  Deep 


134  Abbe  Pierre 

in  the  trenches,  there  they  were,  a  belt  of  shells  for 
the  old  red  sash;  a  hat  of  tin  for  the  old  beret — 
dreaming  of  home  and  their  wooden  shoes,  down  in 
these  valleys  of  Gascony !  At  Fate's  behest,  for  the 
glory  of  France,  they  laid  them  prone.  And  now, 
in  their  wooden  shoes,  bowed  forms  of  women  go 
under  the  cypress  trees  alone,  to  kneel  where  the 
crosses  rise  over  the  heroic  dead,  who  will  wear 
their  wooden  shoes  no  more,  no  more ! 

Let  the  wooden  shoes  be  the  symbol  of  our  peas 
ants  if  you  will,  just  as  Monsieur  Ware  says.  Like 
our  peasants,  they  speak  of  ancient  customs  and  re 
spect  for  long,  long  tradition;  like  them,  they  are 
stout  and  strong;  like  them,  they  are  simple  and 
primitive;  like  them,  too,  they  have  their  note  of 
beauty  and  make  a  music  that  is  precious  to  the  souls 
that  understand  it,  and  that  wait  for  the  echo  of  the 
dear  remembered  step  when  evening  comes,  and  the 
wooden  shoes  wend  homeward  over  twilight  roads 
to  the  rest  and  peace  of  hearts  that  care. 

I  have  a  pair  of  wooden  shoes  myself,  which  I 
sometimes  use  when  it  is  muddy  in  my  garden,  al 
though  they  are  too  small  to  get  on  over  my  leather 
ones. 

They  belonged  to  my  mother,  who  walks  this 
earth  no  more. 


Chapter  XVII :  On  Being  Made 
Ridiculous 

IT  becomes  increasingly  clear  to  me  that  I  am 
very  sensitive  to  ridicule,  especially  when  it 
touches  this  Gascony  of  ours  and  the  sturdy 
people  who  toil  among  its  hills.  I  suppose  that  is 
why  I  so  disliked  to  have  our  wooden  shoes  made 
fun  of  by  Monsieur  Ware,  or  by  any  of  his  friends 
in  far-away  America. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  I  did  not  give  all  the 
reasons  why  our  Gascon  folk  take  themselves  so 
seriously  at  a  public  fete  like  that  at  Margouet.  An 
other  reason  for  our  grave  decorum  on  such  occa 
sions  is  that,  while  we  Gascons  are  fond  of  ridiculing 
others,  and  are  really  adepts  at  that  sort  of  thing, 
we  are  very  self-conscious,  and  not  one  of  us  likes 
to  be  ridiculed  himself.  Perhaps  this  is  one  of  our 
faults.  I  have  been  wondering. 

Isn't  it  surprising  how  a  little  thing  like  a  pair  of 
sabots  can  stir  one  up  and  set  one  to  thinking? 

I  have  noticed  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  people 
in  our  world;  the  kind  that  thinks  of  everything  in 
relation  to  their  little  selves — the  self-centered  peo 
ple,  they  are;  and  the  kind  that  do  just  the  other 
thing,  that  is,  relate  themselves  to  all  the  great 

135 


136  Abbe  Pierre 

world  outside  them,  looking  not  inward,  but  out 
ward,  and  realizing  that  they  are  but  very  little  por 
tions  of  a  very  large  universe.  The  great  philoso 
phers  belong  to  this  last  kind  of  people,  the  great 
philosophers,  who  try  to  see  all  things  in  their  just 
proportions,  and  who  do  not  contort  everything  by 
thinking  how  it  affects  their  own  puny  persons ;  and, 
avoiding  this  very  lamentable  trait,  they  are  kept 
from  being  as  puny  as  a  human  being  otherwise  is. 

Now,  it  is  just  possible  that  it  is  this  very  philo 
sophic  temper  that  gives  us  what  we  call  the  sense  of 
humor.  That  is,  both  the  humorist  and  the  philoso 
pher  are  at  one  in  this — they  see  things  in  their 
bigness,  and  can  afford  to  laugh  when  one  little  part 
of  the  world  sets  itself  up  as  if  it  were  the  whole 
world,  as  some  people  do  who  know  no  better.  And 
people  who  see  things  in  the  large  like  that  find  much 
in  life  to  laugh  at,  because,  as  I  said,  they  perceive 
life  with  a  generous  vision,  and  notice  when  things 
get  ridiculously  disproportionate  one  with  another. 
I  repeat,  philosophers  and  humorists  are  very  much 
alike.  When  the  humorist  laughs,  he  is,  as  it  were, 
philosophizing  through  his  laughter;  and  when  the 
philosopher  criticizes  our  fragmentary  world,  he  is 
a  humorist  whose  laughter  has  turned  into  logic. 

So  it  is  that  when  you  find  a  person  who  not  only 
sees  the  ridiculous  in  other  people,  but  can  himself 
accept  ridicule  when  it  is  deserved,  and  can  laugh 
at  it  as  heartily  as  anybody — I  say  then  you  have 
found  a  rare  mind,  a  mind  that  views  things  in  the 
large,  as  do  the  great  thinkers  and  dreamers  and 
artists,  whose  splendid  vision  the  world  is  never 


On  Being  Made  Ridiculous     137 

tired  of  glorifying,  especially  after  they  have  been 
dead  awhile. 

This  is  the  reason,  I  suppose,  why  all  great  na 
tions  have  been  nations  that  knew  how  to  laugh. 
There  was  Greece,  through  whose  happy,  whole 
hearted  laughter,  which  echoes  even  now,  emerged 
the  large-souled  philosophies  of  Plato  and  Aristotle, 
and  the  art  of  a  Phidias  and  a  Euripides.  There  is 
France — has  she  not  also  learned  the  splendid  art  of 
laughter,  and  does  she  not  teach  it  to  the  world,  to 
gether  with  such  other  arts  and  such  philosophies  as 
the  whole  earth  is  glad  to  know?  Show  me  a  man 
who  is  acquainted  with  rational  laughter — I  don't 
mean  the  silly  laughter  of  school  girls,  but  the  laugh 
ter  that  comes  of  a  deep  sense  of  humor — show  me 
such  a  man,  I  say,  who  can  laugh  even  when  the  jest 
is  about  himself,  and  I  will  show  you  a  man,  too,  who 
has  learned  one  of  the  greatest  secrets  of  living  un 
selfishly,  of  living  so  that  he  perceives  events  in  such 
good  proportion  that  he  knows  well  enough  that  he 
counts  for  only  one ;  a  man  that  does  not  emphasize 
his  own  little  rights  over  those  of  his  fellowmen, 
and  who  is  truly  on  the  way  to  loving  his  neighbor 
as  himself.  Even  good  morals  and  a  mind  attuned 
to  the  humor  of  things  are  not  far  apart! 

Perhaps  it  would  be  better,  then,  if  we  Gascons 
were  not  so  sensitive  to  ridicule,  for  I  am  afraid  it 
does  not  show  as  exalted  a  quality  of  humor  as  we 
should  have,  and  reveals  us  as  a  little  too  self-cen 
tered  and  lacking  in  large  outlooks.  It  may  be, 
though,  that  we  are  no  worse  than  other  people. 
And  anyway,  I  have  mostly  in  mind  our  uneducated 


138  Abbe  Pierre 

peasants,  among  whom,  however,  one  will  find  many 
exceptions. 

Montaigne  has  written  a  whole  essay  on  the  fact 
that  we  weep  and  laugh  at  the  same  things.  How 
easy  it  is  to  pass  from  laughter  to  tears,  from  tears 
to  laughter!  Sometimes  we  are  at  a  loss  to  know 
which  to  do.  I  wonder  why  this  is  so.  I  think  our 
laughter  and  tears  are  thus  near  together  because 
each  expresses  the  same  thing  from  a  different  point 
of  view.  For  instance,  look  at  Joseph  Lignac,  our 
lame  blacksmith,  who  sings  so  baldly  and  loudly,  fol 
lowing  the  priest  in  our  religious  processions.  One 
might  easily  laugh  at  him  because  it  is  so  incongru 
ous  to  see  his  awkwardness  as  he  lumbers  along  un 
gracefully,  bawling  at  the  top  of  his  unmusical  voice. 
But  that  is  because  we  then  see  him  from  the  out 
side;  we  have  not  entered  into  his  soul,  or  perhaps 
do  not  realize  that  he  has  a  soul.  The  sight  of  him 
might  just  as  easily  bring  tears;  but  that  is  when  one 
puts  oneself  in  his  place  and  enters  into  his  good, 
honest  heart  and  feels  the  deep  pathos  of  his  poor 
life — his  crooked  legs,  his  hard  toil  at  the  forge, 
and  oh,  the  soul  of  him  that  rises  so  bravely  in  song 
over  all  his  misfortunes  and  reaches — I  am  sure — 
to  the  gates  of  the  eternal  ways,  where  angels  listen 
and  find  his  singing  sweet,  be  his  voice  as  crude  and 
barren  as  it  may!  But  whether  you  laugh  or  weep 
at  him,  if  you  do  it  sensibly,  it  requires  vision,  imagi 
nation,  for  either.  Or,  maybe  it  is  this  way:  He  who 
laughs  is  he  who  sees  a  stray  fragment  of  life  ludi 
crously  unfitted  to  that  large  perfection  of  God's 
universe  that  our  ideals  demand;  he  sees  the  farce, 


On  Being  Made  Ridiculous     139 

and  laughs.  And  he  who  weeps  sees  the  same  thing, 
only  from  the  tragic  side ;  he  cannot  get  his  soul  away 
from  the  defeat  that  the  finite  years  always  bring 
as  we  dream  of  the  distant  goal.  Thus  it  is  that  we 
can  laugh  and  weep  at  the  same  things,  for  they  have 
both  the  comic  side  and  the  tragic  side,  to  suit  our 
moods.  But  for  us  mortals,  tears  mean  more. 

Weeping  is  laughter's  second  thought. 

The  greatest  geniuses  among  poets  and  dramatists 
and  novelists  and  orators  are  they  who  can  merge 
both  humor  and  pathos  in  their  art.  They  furnish 
both  laughter  and  tears  for  all  the  ages. 

Ah,  but  the  good  God,  who  sees  all  clearly,  He 
neither  laughs,  nor  does  He  weep.  For  He  sees 
both  sides  at  once,  the  ultimate  triumph,  yes,  and  the 
endless  defeat,  too,  of  our  poor  hearts;  He  sees  and 
understands,  and  although  He  laughs  or  weeps  not, 
He  ever  sympathizes  in  His  pervasive  love  with  all 
our  honest  laughter  and  all  our  honest  tears. 

Still,  when  I  thought  Monsieur  Ware  was  ridi 
culing  us  Gascons  and  our  wooden  shoes,  and  I  be 
came  indignant  about  it,  I  was  perfectly  right  to 
become  indignant.  For  his  was  the  ridicule  of  igno 
rance  and  not  of  understanding.  And  that  makes 
all  the  difference  in  the  world,  as  any  one  can  see. 
However,  it  turned  out  that  he  did  not  mean  to  make 
fun  of  us  in  the  way  I  at  first  supposed,  so  I  will 
not  make  too  great  a  point  of  the  matter. 


Chapter  XVIII:  Cabbage  Plants  and 
People 

I  HAVE  been  working  on  that  little  pavilion  of 
mine  at  the  top  of  my  garden  by  the  big  pine 
tree.  At  least,  little  ReneVs  father — he  is  some 
what  of  a  carpenter — has  started  it  for  me.  He 
began  this  morning,  and  there  has  been  an  unwonted 
noise  of  sawing  and  hammering  and  slamming  of 
boards  and  even  snatches  of  song  in  patois,  which 
broke  in  upon  my  usual  quiet,  so  that  I  could  neither 
write  nor  study.  Besides,  it  was  necessary  that  I 
stand  about  and  direct  things,  else  all  would  have 
gone  wrong.  One  cannot  trust  matters  of  taste  to 
others;  moreover,  I  have  no  plan  of  this  little  pa 
vilion,  except  in  my  own  head,  and  even  this  plan 
has  been  a  trifle  vague  in  some  particulars.  I  like 
to  see  such  things  grow  naturally,  without  too  much 
hurrying,  like  a  tree. 

However,  ReneVs  father  could  not  come  back  in 
the  afternoon,  as  he  had  to  attend  to  his  vineyard, 
which  needed  spraying,  so  he  said.  So  I  went  back 
to  my  garden  after  dinner,  intending  to  spend  some 
quiet  hours  in  my  garden-house,  writing.  But  I 

140 


Cabbage  Plants  and  People     141 

could  not  write  a  word,  having  lost  the  mood,  for 
somehow  the  noise  of  the  carpentry  still  echoed  in 
my  head. 

It  was  then  that  I  recollected  that  it  was  Monday. 
And  this  gave  me  a  happy  thought.  For  Monday  is 
market-day  in  our  village,  and  I  was  reminded  that 
I  needed  some  cabbage  plants  for  my  garden.  Then, 
too,  there  is  nothing  I  like  better  than  to  go  to  the 
Place  on  market-days  and  mingle  with  the  peasants 
that  come  in  from  miles  around. 

My  stricken  friend,  the  Abbe  Rivoire,  is  like  me 
in  this.  He  lately  wrote  me  that  if  he  could  have 
been  at  that  fete  at  Margouet,  he  would  have  been 
more  interested  in  the  people  than  in  their  games. 
He  ought  to  see  our  Place  on  market-days!  Here 
I  greet  many  old  acquaintances  from  the  country  and 
talk  with  them  about  recent  happenings  and,  per 
haps,  about  old  times.  I  hoped  especially  that  to 
day  it  might  be  my  good  fortune  to  see  my  old  friend, 
Marius  Fontan.  He  has  a  manuscript  I  wanted  to 
ask  him  about. 

As  I  made  my  way  from  my  garden  toward  the 
Street  of  the  Church,  I  noticed  several  teams  of 
oxen  hitched  to  their  carts,  standing  peacefully  in 
the  shade  by  the  cemetery  wall.  In  some  of  the  carts 
were  chairs  in  which  the  peasants  had  brought  their 
women  folks.  In  the  bottom  of  one  of  these  carts, 
lying  in  the  clean  straw,  there  was  a  diminutive,  rosy- 
cheeked  girl,  with  a  red  ribbon  in  her  hair,  sleeping. 
What,  I  thought,  is  more  sweetly  mysterious  than  a 
little  child,  sleeping  like  that,  with  its  tiny  hands, 
half  open  and  half  shut,  and  its  face  full  of  that 


142  Abbe  Pierre 

peace  of  God  which  only  very  little  children  or  very 
old  people  know ! 

Our  Place  is  at  its  very  best  on  market-day.  The 
merchants  come  from  all  the  villages  around,  and 
like  magic  their  white  awnings  spring  up  in  every 
available  space,  with  tempting  merchandise  spread 
under  them  on  tables,  or  even  on  the  ground  for  that 
matter,  only  then  they  put  a  canvas  over  the  ground 
first.  It  is  as  though  one  had  rubbed  Aladdin's  lamp 
and  voilaf  our  peaceful,  prosaic  square  had  suddenly 
become  a  great  mart  of  trade,  a  city  of  tents !  No 
wonder  the  more  ambitious  of  our  village  have  been 
bold  enough  to  call  our  Place  the  "Place  du  Com 
merce  !"  It  almost  deserves  that  name  on  market- 
day! 

Arid  how  genially  the  mild  June  sun  shone  down 
to-day  on  the  canvas  coverings  placed  at  every  rakish 
angle,  on  the  plastered  fronts  of  the  two  rows  of 
shops,  on  the  east  side  of  the  Place ;  on  the  old,  rick 
ety  arcades,  too,  on  the  north  side,  venturing  in  under 
their  weather-worn  pillars  and  revealing  the  shop  of 
the  barber,  and  the  grain  store,  and  the  courier's 
office,  at  other  times  of  the  day  quite  dark  under  the 
projecting  upper  stories!  Here,  there,  and  every 
where,  peasant  men  and  women  and  children  thread 
ing  their  way  hither  and  thither,  greeting  each  other 
noisily,  and  chattering  and  bargaining  without  limit. 
And  over  the  clatter  of  wooden  shoes  and  buz 
zing  of  voices,  one  heard  the  calls  of  the  more  ag 
gressive  of  the  merchants,  all  mingled  in  one  riotous 
hubbub. 

"R  egardez !    R egardez /" 


Cabbage  Plants  and  People     143 

"Come  and  see  these  fine  shirts,  only  five  francs !" 
"Voyez,  Messieurs  et  Dames!" 
"Nice  kitchenware,  quite  cheap !" 
"Fenez  voirf  Look  at  these  sashes  1" 
It  is  the  merchant  from  Riscle  who  is  making  the 
most  noise.  His  booth  is  just  in  front  of  the  town 
hall,  and  he  is  selling  all  kinds  of  ready-made  articles 
for  the  men — long,  wide  sashes,  red  and  blue,  work- 
shirts  of  a  nondescript  color,  blue  smocks,  cotton 
trousers,  and  heavy  socks.  Oh,  he  has  a  fine  as 
sortment!  The  women  are  not  forgotten  either, 
for  there  is  the  man  from  Eauze  with  a  long  table 
filled  with  gay  ribbons,  laces  by  the  yard  (very  cheap 
imitations,  one  may  be  sure),  collars  of  lace,  and 
fancy  braids,  and  other  things  I  do  not  even  know 
the  names  of.  Then,  right  beside  him  is  a  great  giant 
of  a  fellow  from  Plaisance,  with  all  sorts  of  mate 
rials  for  dresses,  such  as  black  satine,  which  the 
older  country  women  like  to  wear  in  summer;  and 
for  the  younger  girls,  ginghams,  and  voiles,  and 
chambrays,  all  in  bright  colors.  Do  you  need  house 
hold  linen,  Madame?  Well,  here  it  is;  and  here, 
Monsieur,  is  heavy  canvas  of  which  Madame  may 
make  covers  for  your  oxen. 

If  you  want  to  get  into  the  shade,  you  can  wander 
over  to  the  west  side  of  the  Place  and  find  plenty  to 
see  as  well.  Under  the  cool  arcades  of  the  town  hall 
is  the  grain  market.  Solid,  well-to-do  merchants  you 
see  here,  displaying  their  maize  and  oats  and  wheat, 
and  sack  on  sack  of  good,  honest  potatoes.  And  near 
by  is  the  most  interesting  part  of  all,  the  long  row 
of  peasant  women  on  the  narrow  sidewalk  and  along 


144  Abbe  Pierre 

the  curb,  with  vegetables  and  fruits,  which  make  a 
man  hungry  just  to  contemplate  them!  Luscious, 
yellow  plums  and  the  last,  lingering  strawberries; 
and  all  these  fresh  vegetables  were  raised  by  these 
women  in  their  own  gardens — lettuce,  and  radishes, 
and  onions,  and  string  beans,  and  eggplants,  and 
artichokes.  Good  old  Marinette  is  here  with  the 
most  attractive  assortment  of  all,  although  she  prob 
ably  has  the  tiniest  garden  of  any  of  them ;  but  Mari 
nette,  after  all  is  said  and  done,  is  a  wonderful 
woman  in  her  way !  And  here  at  a  corner  of  the 
curb  is  the  old  gardener  from  Demu,  with  his  garden- 
plants  spread  on  the  ground,  all  ready  to  set  out.  I 
shall  see  him  about  those  winter  cabbages  before  I 
go  home. 

I  like  to  plant  things  in  my  garden.  To  place 
these  living  thoughts  of  nature  in  the  fertile  ground 
and  see  them  grow — what  is  greater  happiness  than 
that? 

I  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  arcades  and  had 
just  passed  the  barber's,  when  I  came  upon  a  group 
of  girls,  some  seated  and  some  standing,  in  front 
of  Colette  Rozies'  grain  store,  just  back  of  where 
the  pastry-man  from  Nogaro  had  spread  his  table. 
There  was  Colette  herself,  talking  in  a  most  animated 
way  with  Yvonne,  her  cousin.  Yvonne  does  not  be 
long  to  our  village.  She  comes  to  visit  Colette  from 
down  on  the  coast,  near  Spain.  Colette,  by  the  way, 
is  one  of  these  bold,  stately  beauties,  a  pronounced 
brunette,  with  large,  languid  eyes,  which  are  very 
conscious  of  their  power  over  the  young  gallants. 

I  did  not  tarry  near  this  group  of  young  people 


Cabbage  Plants  and  People     145 

longer  than  to  answer  their  greeting;  for,  as  soon 
as  they  saw  me,  their  chattering  ceased,  and  they 
looked  a  little  guilty,  as  if  they  had  been  saying  things 
they  did  not  want  me  to  hear.  I  passed  on  out  of 
the  arcades,  close  by  the  stand  of  the  pastry-man, 
who  was  doing  a  thriving  business  in  eclairs  and 
ring-cakes  and  those  triangular  tarts,  filled  with 
cream,  known  as  Jesuits. 

I  hold  that  a  man  who  sells  pastry  should  have 
an  inviting  face,  to  match  the  fascinating  quality  of 
his  wares ;  but  this  man  had  a  face  that  would  rumple 
with  disgust  the  surface-calm  of  any  soul.  Per 
haps,  though,  I  was  in  no  mood  to  judge  faces  just 
then,  for  I  had  overheard  Colette  say  something 
that  was  not  meant  to  reach  my  ears,  and  which 
troubled  me  considerably,  imperturbable  as  I  try  to 
be,  both  as  a  priest  and  as  a  philosopher,  in  the 
presence  of  idle  talk. 


Chapter  XIX :  Gossip 

I  WAS  probably  unjust  to  the  pastry-man's  face, 
since,  I  confess,  I  was  angry.  For  what  I  over 
heard  Colette  saying  was  about  Germaine  Sance 
and  the  American,  David  Ware.  She  as  much  as 
hinted  that  it  was  no  wonder  that  this  foreigner  lin 
gered  on  in  our  part  of  the  world,  and  that  there 
would  be  a  wedding  before  long  that  would  surprise 
some  people. 

I  have  already  expressed  my  thoughts  about  this 
subject.  Ordinarily,  I  have  not  paid  much  attention 
to  the  gossip  of  the  women  of  our  village,  which  is 
mostly  without  foundation,  anyway.  But  to  hear 
Colette  say  such  things  was  different.  For  Colette 
is  supposed  to  be  a  great  friend  of  Germaine's,  and 
they  talk  over  many  things  together,  and  anything 
that  Colette  says  is  likely  to  be  believed.  I  was 
vexed  with  her  that  she  should  speak  of  such  matters 
so  publicly;  besides,  I  knew  what  she  said  was  not 
true.  No,  I  could  not  and  would  not  believe  it. 

As  I  turned  away  from  the  pastry-man,  I  hap 
pened  to  look  over  toward  the  bazaar-booth  in  the 
very  middle  of  the  Place,  and  there  was  Monsieur 
Ware  himself,  with  his  invalid  sister  leaning  upon 

146 


Gossip  147 

his  arm,  looking  at  the  gay  array  of  toys  and  the 
knickknacks  for  the  ladies,  which  a  man  from  Mar- 
ciac  always  brings  on  market-day.  I  suppose  Co 
lette  and  the  girls  had  seen  the  American  there,  which 
would  account  for  their  whisperings  and  covert 
glances  in  that  direction.  Somehow,  I  found  myself 
moving  that  way.  As  I  passed  the  booth  of  the 
shoe  merchant  from  Maubourget,  I  heard  a  tre 
mendous  sneeze;  looking  up,  I  saw  that  it  was  the 
portly  Aurignac  from  Riscle,  who  is  a  deputy  and  a 
red  republican.  Monsieur  Fitte,  the  notary,  who 
has  a  sense  of  humor,  happened  to  greet  me  at  that 
moment  and  remarked,  noticing  the  direction  of  my 
glance, 

"That  is  the  great  orator  sneezing;  even  in  his 
sneezing  he  is  eloquent !" 

"I  prefer  it  to  his  speeches, "  said  I,  and  passed 
on. 

Although  I  had  no  great  desire  to  talk  to  Mon 
sieur  Ware,  I  soon  found  myself  quite  near  him.  He 
and  his  sister,  a  pale,  sweet-faced  woman,  with  re 
finement  and  suffering  written  in  every  feature,  were 
absorbed  in  looking  at  the  little  wooden  horses, 
bisque  dolls,  pepper  mills,  combs,  purses,  school-bags, 
and  pencil  boxes — such  an  incredible  miscellany  of 
things  as  makes  the  bazaar-booth  the  most  attractive 
of  all. 

The  first  thing  I  knew,  Monsieur  Ware  had  smil 
ingly  introduced  me  to  his  sister. 

I  ventured  to  say  that  he  and  his  sister  must  find 
it  rather  dull  here  after  the  great  cities,  like  New 
York  and  London  and  Paris. 


148  Abbe  Pierre 

"On  the  contrary!  I  don't  know  where  in  all  the 
world  I  have  ever  seen  just  such  a  sight  as  this  Place 
of  yours  on  market-day!'* 

"Hardly  a  lyric,  however,"  said  I,  thinking  of  the 
wooden  shoes  and  Monsieur  Ware's  projected  poem 
about  them. 

"No,  not  a  lyric — but  if  I  were  a  writer  of  plays, 
well,  that  would  be  different! — My  sister  and  I  arc 
having  the  time  of  our  lives !" 

I  noticed  that  Monsieur  Ware  had  already  bought 
something — at  least  he  had  a  parcel  in  his  hand. 
He  saw  my  glance  wandering  toward  it,  and  he  at 
once  began  to  unwrap  it,  and  finally  revealed  a  bright 
red  sash  and  a  beret. 

"Another  memento  of  your  peasants,"  he  re 
marked,  while  his  sister  laughed  at  his  boyish  eager 
ness.  "Now  I  am  all  equipped — sabots,  sash, 
beret.  I  shall  show  them  what  a  Gascon  peasant  is 
like  when  I  get  home — what  do  you  say,  Emma?" 

"I  say,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  that  my  brother  pays 
about  twice  as  much  as  anybody  else  for  the  things 
he  gets  here.  He  just  pays  them  what  they  ask — 
which  shows  what  an  impractical  dreamer  my  big 
brother  is!" 

I  had  my  own  opinion  of  how  much  that  same 
brother  would  look  like  a  Gascon  peasant,  even  if 
he  put  on  a  million  sashes  and  berets.  It  takes 
more  than  these  things  to  make  a  Gascon,  I  can  tell 
you! 

I  called  the  attention  of  Monsieur  Ware  and  his 
sister  to  a  tall,  stalwart  man  from  Vic-Fezensac, 
who  stood  by  his  display  of  hardware — skillets,  iron 


Gossip  149 

pots,  earthenware  dishes,  and  water  jugs.  He  had  a 
rugged,  weathered  face,  with  something  of  nobility 
in  it.  He  wore  the  remnants  of  a  uniform,  and  I 
personally  knew  that  he  had  received  the  croix  de 
guerre  with  a  palm  for  great  heroism,  although  he 
was  but  an  ordinary  poilu  in  the  war.  His  thoughts 
seemed  to  be  far  away  from  his  merchandise.  Stand 
ing  in  the  trenches,  I  thought,  after  a  night  of  weary 
vigil,  he  often  dreamed  of  home  and  peace;  but  now, 
home  again — ah,  is  it  not  so? — he  often  pauses  as 
he  does  now,  longing  for  those  heroic  and  glamorous 
days  when  he  was  a  soldier  of  France! 

That  is  the  way  life  is. 

Over  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  Place,  the  shops 
were  doing  a  steady  business.  People  were  lounging 
in  and  out  of  the  tobacco  shop;  the  Au  Bon  Marche 
had  its  best  goods  displayed  in  its  windows; 
the  cafes  were  full,  especially  the  popular  Cafe  La- 
doues,  where  the  fair  filise  serves  at  the  tables. 
Here  a  crowd  was  gathered  about  the  one  billiard 
table,  for  two  favorite  toreadors  were  competing  for 
supremacy  in  a  game  much  too  mild  for  such  swag 
gering  champions  of  the  arena.  There  was  much 
talking  and  laughter  and  good-natured  bantering 
about  them,  and  incessant  trays  of  drinks,  from  mild 
orgeat  and  lemonade  to  cognac  and  armagnac. 
Poor  filise  will  be  weary  enough  by  sunset,  but  you 
would  not  think  it,  seeing  her  bustling  hither  and 
thither  with  a  smile  for  everybody. 

A  little  farther  on,  emerging  from  the  doorway  of 
a  cheap  barroom,  I  saw  a  girl  of  our  village,  her 
cheeks  rouged,  and  dressed  in  a  flagrant  way.  The 


ISO  'Abbe  Pierre 

effort  to  make  her  eyes  look  bold  betrayed  the  guilt 
that  weighed  them  down,  for  she  is  not  yet  entirely 
shameless.  She  lives  with  her  lover  at  Toulouse, 
but  sometimes  visits  her  mother  here. 

In  front  of  the  big  merchandise  store,  one  always 
sees  tiny  Pauline,  who  has  never  grown  up  and  is 
always  strapped  in  her  little  chair  by  the  doorway. 
Her  mind  is  not  quite  right;  but  always  she  is  smil 
ing  and  greets  everybody  that  comes  with  out 
stretched  hand  and  eager  eyes.  She  has  been  getting 
worse  lately,  and  as  I  passed,  I  saw  the  doctor  talk 
ing  with  the  mother  and  writing  a  prescription  for 
the  pharmacist.  I  noticed  that  the  little  doctor  had 
a  new  kind  of  prescription  blank,  with  his  name 
neatly  typed  in  the  corner.  I  saw  this  because  the 
little  doctor  showed  one  to  me,  telling  me  at  the  same 
time  that  a  number  had  been  done  for  him  by  Mon 
sieur  Ware  on  his  American  typewriting  machine. 

We  ought  to  have  a  printer  in  Aignan. 

Monsieur  Ware  must  be  getting  very  friendly  in 
deed  with  the  Sance  household. 

Could  there  be  anything  at  all — the  leas£  thing — 
in  that  foolish  talk  of  Colette? 

I  had  about  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  would 
not  see  Marius  Fontan  to-day,  when  I  happened  to 
look  toward  the  tobacco  shop,  and  there,  by  the 
wall,  oblivious  to  the  crowd  moving  about  him,  I 
saw  Marius  standing,  his  eyes  on  the  ground  and 
his  hands  behind  his  back.  It  was  not  until  I  was 
quite  close  to  him  and  spoke  to  him  that  he  saw  me, 
and  then  with  a  start. 

"You  look  as  though  you  had  just  come  from 


Gossip  151 

Pampelune  I"  I  said.  And,  indeed,  Marius'  mind 
is  most  of  the  time  in  Pampelune — that  name  we 
Gascons  so  often  use  for  the  place  of  dreams. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,  Monsieur  1'Abbe !  Yes,  I  have 
been  standing  here  quite  awhile,  I  suppose.  You 
see,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  as  you  know,  I  am  writing  a 
little  something  about  our  village  as  it  was  long  ago. 
Pardon,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  I  was  thinking  about  that 
and  forgot  everything  else  for  a  few  little  moments 
here.  No,  I  did  not  see  you!" 

I  told  him  that  it  was  about  that  very  writing  I 
wanted  to  talk  with  him. 

"I  am  nearly  done.  If  you  will  let  me,  I  will  fetch 
it  to  you  in  a  few  days,  so  you  can  see  what  I  have 
put  down.  It  will  never  be  very  complete;  it  is  a 
calamity  that  the  papers  in  the  town  hall  were  burned 
that  time.n 

I  like  to  hear  Marius  talk  about  old  times,  so  I 
remarked  something  about  the  ancient  market-hall 
that  was  torn  down  when  I  was  a  boy. 

"Our  Place  was  different  in  those  days,  Monsieur 
1'Abbe.  There  was  the  old  tower  of  the  dungeon, 
too.  The  market-hall  stood  just  there. — It  was  built 
in  the  Middle  Ages,  although  it  was  only  of  wood. 
A  big,  five-sided  building  it  was,  where  the  drapers 
and  weavers  displayed  their  goods  on  long  rows  of 
tables.  The  village  made  money  out  of  it,  too;  it 
was  rented  every  nine  years  to  the  highest  bidder; 
he  sold  space  to  the  merchants  from  all  the  towns." 

"The  arcades  over  there  will  be  the  next  things 
to  go,"  said  I. 

"It  will  be  a  pity.    They  are  getting  old.    Well, 


152  Abbe  Pierre 

they  will  last  as  long  as  I  will,  Monsieur  1'Abbe!" 
About  the  old  donjon-tower  Marius  mentioned,  he 
and  I  have  always  had  a  quarrel.  I  maintain  that 
the  tower  fell  of  itself,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
it  was  too  decrepit  to  stand  any  longer.  Marius 
holds  that  it  was  demolished  by  the  council  because, 
they  said,  it  had  grown  to  be  a  menace;  and  Marius 
says  the  council  was  wrong  and  that  it  was  no 
menace  at  all,  but  was  strong  enough  to  have  stood 
for  a  long  time.  And  he  says  this  was  proved  by  the 
great  difficulty  they  had  in  tearing  it  down.  But  I 
know  differently.  I  know  that  the  tower  had  a  big 
crevice  in  it  that  was  growing  wider  every  day,  and 
that  the  grandfather  of  Germaine  Sance  proved  how 
dangerous  the  tower  was  in  the  following  way.  One 
night  he  pasted  a  paper  over  the  great  crack,  and  the 
very  next  morning  this  crack  had  increased  so  much 
that  the  paper  was  torn  in  two,  straight  down  the 
middle !  Grandfather  Sance  had  reason  to  be  con 
cerned,  because  his  house  was  very  near  the  tower 
— it  was  that  one  on  the  west  side  of  the  Place,  in 
front  of  which  the  women  now  sell  their  vegetables. 
But  Marius  will  not  listen  to  any  of  this.  On  one 
thing,  however,  we  both  agree.  This  is  that  the 
old  tower  should  have  been  kept  standing  in  some 
way,  as  a  reminder  of  the  ancient  days.  We  are  at 
one  concerning  that! 

I  told  Marius  that  instead  of  waiting  for  him  to 
bring  his  manuscript  to  me,  I  might  walk  out  to  his 
place  soon  to  get  it.  Marius  is  becoming  old,  and 
the  walk  to  Aignan  is  rather  far  from  where  he 
lives.  Besides,  I  want  to  see  for  myself  if  he  is  in 


Gossip  153 

such  a  wretched  condition  as  people  say  he  is.  I 
shall  take  him  a  package  of  tobacco.  I  must  not  for 
get  that. 

It  was  getting  nearly  five  o'clock,  so  I  parted  from 
Marius  to  hunt  up  the  gardener  from  Demu  and  get 
those  winter  cabbage  plants  I  had  set  out  for  in  the 
first  place.  While  I  was  picking  them  out,  I  hap 
pened  to  look  up,  and  there  over  by  Marinette's 
display  of  vegetables,  I  saw  Germaine  and  her 
mother  doing  their  marketing,  little  Renee  carrying 
the  basket,  almost  as  big  as  herself.  Before  I  left, 
I  saw  Monsieur  Ware  and  his  sister  join  them.  I 
observed  that  they  were  already  engaged  in  a  lively 
conversation,  so  I  did  not  stop  to  speak  with  them. 
Instead,  very  thoughtfully,  I  made  my  way  home 
ward. 

While  passing  the  covered  poultry  market,  up  the 
Street  of  the  Church,  I  chanced  to  meet  Henri,  with 
his  violin  under  his  arm,  going  to  practice  with  our 
young  postmaster,  who  ought  to  be  attending  to  his 
business  instead.  At  almost  any  hour  of  the  day 
you  can  hear  the  thin  wail  of  a  violin  from  the  win 
dows  of  the  post  office. 

I  suppose  I  should  not  have  revealed  what  I  had 
on  my  mind  to  Henri,  but  I  could  not  help  it.  I 
even  went  so  far  as  to  ask  him  if  there  was  anything 
between  his  sister  Germaine  and  his  good  friend 
Monsieur  Ware.  I  asked  it  carelessly,  it  is  true, 
and  not  so  directly  as  I  write  it  here,  but  in  a  round 
about  way,  for  I  did  not  want  to  appear  as  if  it  was 
of  much  consequence,  or  that  I  was  intruding  into 
what  was  really  not  my  concern. 


154  Abbe  Pierre 

Henri  is  very  open  and  frank  with  me,  and  he 
merely  said, 

"I  asked  Germaine  the  other  day  if  she  liked  Mon 
sieur  Ware,  and  she  said,  'Yes.'  She  did  not  say 
anything  more." 

Later,  I  started  out  into  the  country  to  take  dinner 
with  my  sister.  On  the  road  were  many  people  go 
ing  home  from  market — some  on  foot,  some  in  ox 
carts,  some  with  loaves  of  bread  on  their  heads, 
some  with  live  geese  and  ducks  and  chickens  from 
the  poultry  market,  and  one  man  with  more  liquid 
in  his  stomach  than  was  good  for  his  legs.  All  the 
way  I  was  vexed  to  find  myself  meditating  on  what 
Germaine  had  replied  to  that  question  of  Henri's 
concerning  Monsieur  Ware. 

She  had  said,  "Yes."  Still,  that  might  not  mean 
much.  There  are  so  many  ways  of  saying,  "Yes." 
One  may  say,  "Yes,"  with  a  rising  or  falling  inflec 
tion;  with  a  sigh,  or  with  clear  downrightness ;  with 
tears  or  with  laughter;  lingeringly  or  decisively; 
curtly  or  caressingly. 

"Henri  did  not  tell  me  much,"  I  said  to  myself. 

I  sometimes  think  that  I  am. getting  old  and  med 
dlesome.  Yet  what  are  our  lives  save  as  they  arc 
caught  in  the  drama  of  the  lives  about  us — the  lives 
of  those  that  are  dear  to  us? 


Chapter  XX:  At  Night 

IT  was  late  when  I  came  home  from  my  sister's 
farm.  As  I  was  crossing  the  Place,  lighted  only 
by  the  stars,  every  footstep  of  mine  echoed 
loudly,  and  I  thought  how  different  everything  looked 
as  compared  with  a  few  hours  before,  when  this 
same  Place  was  thronged  with  people,  and  the  sun 
shone  bright  on  the  busy  scene.  Now  all  this  riot 
of  life  was  gone,  and  our  public  square  was  a  place 
of  dreams  and  shadows  and  a  brooding  peace. 

How  dark  it  was  under  the  arcades  where  the  sun 
was  so  lately  streaming,  and  how  mysterious  the 
black  shadows  under  the  starlit  pillars !  In  the  day 
time,  these  pillars  were  of  ordinary  wood,  eaten  away 
by  time  and  weather-stained;  but  now,  under  the  dim 
light  of  the  stars,  they  might  be  of  fairest  marble ! 

I  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  darkness  in  front  of 
Grandfather  Sance's  old  house — the  same  house  that 
was  once  in  danger  from  the  ancient  tower — the 
very  house  in  which  Germaine  was  born — and  con 
templated  the  quiet  scene.  The  bell  of  the  mairie, 
thin-toned,  shallow,  and  unresonant,  startled  the  si 
lence  with  the  stroke  of  the  half  hour.  It  was  half- 
past  nine,  then.  From  a  distant  street  came  the 

155 


156  Abbe  Pierre 

bark  of  a  dog.  Once  or  twice  a  scarcely  distinguish 
able  form  glided  across  the  Place  to  the  village 
pump,  which  suddenly  raised  a  thousand  echoes  with 
its  creaking  and  rattling.  Then  vanishing  footsteps 
and  silence,  deeper  than  before. 

From  the  windows  of  Rigot's  cafe  shine  dim  lights. 
And  from  the  dark  bench  in  front  come  the  subdued 
voices  of  three  or  four  men.  One  of  them  strikes  a 
match,  and  I  can  see  his  face;  it  is  Bajac,  the  butcher. 

Now  the  moon  has  risen  high  enough  so  that  the 
heavy  wooden  shutters  of  the  houses,  some  closed, 
some  half  open,  reflect  the  gray  light  on  their  blank 
surfaces.  Above  the  low  roofs,  the  church  tower  is 
a  thing  of  silver  gleams  and  vague  shadows.  Down 
the  dark  walls  of  the  Due  d'Armagnac's  ancient 
house  the  moonlight  slowly  feels  its  way  until  it 
strikes  the  ornate  outlines  of  the  window  in  which 
legend  says  the  Due  de  Bouillon  lost  his  life. 

A  muffled  sound  of  footsteps  comes  from  the 
Street  of  the  Church  toward  the  Place.  It  is  the 
girls  going  back  to  the  convent  school,  two  by  two. 
They  have  been  to  evening  prayer,  before  the  altar 
of  the  Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus.  They  cross  the  Place 
and  descend  the  road  to  the  south. 

Then  silence  again.  The  men  in  front  of  Rigot's 
cafe  have  gone  home.  No  one  will  come  to  the 
pump  again  to-night.  The  silence  broods.  Sud 
denly,  thin  and  clear,  like  a  muffled  dulcimer,  is  heard 
the  staccato  notes  of  the  toads,  each  sounding  its 
plaint  on  a  different  key,  one  after  another,  rhyth 
mically,  with  a  slight  pause  between.  According  to 
the  children,  they  are  saying  to  each  other: 


At  Night  157 

"Tiod     Tiocf 
Has  es  clops?" 
"Nou!" 
"Tuf9 

"Jou  tapoc!" 

The  toads  carry  on  their  conversation  in  patois,  so 
only  the  peasant  children  understand  them;  but  what 
they  really  say  in  plain  English  is  : 

"Tioc!    Tiocf 
Have  you  sabots?" 


"And  you?" 
"Neither  have  I!" 


So,  having  no  sabots,  they  cannot  go  and  visit  each 
other  —  alas  I 

And  now  I  move  out  from  the  darkness  and  cross 
the  deserted  Place  homeward.  I  look  up.  How 
bright  the  stars  are  shining!  And  how  many,  how 
many  there  are  to-night  !  They  are  never  so  many 
and  never  so  bright  as  when  they  shine  over  this,  my 
native  village.  I  have  looked  at  them  in  many 
places,  and  this  I  know. 

I  enter  the  narrow,  winding  street  that  leads  to 
my  house.  It  is  darker  here.  There  are  mysterious 
shadows  here.  A  few  windows  still  send  out  the 
dim  rays  of  oil  lamps.  A  door  opens  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street  —  a  sudden  patch  of  light  —  then 
darkness  —  but  not  until  I  have  glanced  within;  the 
harness-maker  is  reading  a  newspaper  by  the  rude 
table  in  his  kitchen.  What  a  huge  shadow  of  him 


158  Abbe  Pierre 

the  lamplight  casts  on  the  rough  walls !  From  one 
of  the  projecting  upper  stories  is  seen  the  glow  of  a 
cigarette.  Some  one  is  leaning  out  into  the  night, 
perhaps  indulging  in  dreams  like  myself.  I  note  that 
just  under  this  is  the  dark  outline  of  the  sign  of  the 
wooden  shoe  in  front  of  the  sabot-maker's  shop.  So 
it  is  Paul  Sarrade  behind  that  tiny  glow,  for  even  a 
sabot-maker  has  his  dreams,  and  the  night  can  glor 
ify  the  world  for  him,  too ! 

If  Monsieur  Ware  really  wants  a  lyric,  let  him 
walk  through  our  village  streets  on  a  night  like  this ; 
or,  better  still,  let  him  come  to  my  garden.  How 
often  have  I  stood  on  the  summit  and  looked  out 
over  the  brooding  hills  in  the  starlight!  Gray  ghosts 
of  hills  they  are,  softly  looming  through  a  gentle 
haze — God's  good  hills  that  lie  in  quiet  sleep;  only, 
if  you  look  at  them  long  and  long,  their  dim  breasts 
seem  slowly  to  move  with  the  secret  of  a  dream. 
How  dark  the  great  forest  looks  on  its  hills  to  the 
north!  It  sleeps  not;  it  merely  waits,  like  a  thing 
of  foreboding;  yet  through  its  dense  trees,  if  we  were 
there  to  see,  some  starlight  surely  sifts  its  silvery 
way  to  its  ancient  and  gloomy  heart. 

But  look  through  the  darkness  along  that  high 
ridge  of  hills  to  the  east.  A  faint  glow  slowly  burns 
along  the  far  summits.  It  looks  like  the  reflection 
of  the  Blessed  City  where  there  shall  be  no  more 
tears  and  where  former  things  shall  have  passed 
away.  Lo,  the  golden  light  grows  brighter  and 
spreads  like  the  wings  of  an  archangel  across  the  hill 
tops — and  suddenly,  to  the  thrill  of  all  being,  the  tip 
of  a  golden  sphere  rises  over  the  hills  and,  slowly 


At  Night  159 

lifting  its  blazing  circle  above  the  charmed  valley, 
rolls  majestically  up  the  sky  for  the  wonder  of  half 
a  world! 

It  is  moonrise  in  Gascony! 

See  this  miracle  of  light  floating  up  the  sky  with 
no  support  save  the  inexorable  laws  of  nature — and 
what  are  they?  Oh,  the  wonder  of  it  all!  On  that 
same  moon  as  the  lantern  of  God,  Moses  looked  as 
he  wandered  in  the  wilderness.  From  imperial  roofs, 
kings  have  gazed  upon  it,  marveling,  suddenly  aware 
of  things  that  set  at  nought  all  glory,  even  such  as 
theirs.  Perhaps  from  Judea's  desert  places  the  Di 
vine  Savior  raised  His  eyes  to  this  same  wonder,  and 
then  looked  down  in  sadness,  the  shadows  of  our 
human  sins  mingling  with  the  silver  shadows  at  His 
feet.  How  many  men  have  climbed  the  steep  road 
of  life  since  then !  This  same  moon  has  seen  the 
birth  and  death  of  every  one;  they  have  vanished — 
but  still  she  conquers  the  night  as  of  old. 

If  ever  you  are  forsaken  and  homeless  and  no 
more  friends  are  left  you  in  this  world,  and  your 
heart  is  sick  with  the  sadness  of  it  all,  go  forth  into 
the  night  and  look  at  the  silent  moon !  The  moon 
you  looked  at  in  boyhood  through  the  poplar  trees, 
or  over  the  high-roofed  barn,  or  from  your  bed 
room  window;  the  moon,  under  whose  silver  bene 
diction  you  once  walked  with  friends  now  haply 
dead;  the  moon,  which  shines  over  the  graves  of 
hopes  and  memories  all  the  way  back  over  those 
years  that  have  brought  you  so  far,  so  far!  Look 
up  to  the  sky  and  see  her — she  is  the  same  old  friend; 
she  is  watching  over  you  yet ! 


160  Abbe  Pierre 

Ah,  the  love  of  God,  who  gives  such  glories  unto 
men  that  they  may  be  mindful  of  Him  and  forget 
Him  not. 

Oh,  the  wonder  of  it  all,  the  mystery  of  it  all! 
Let  us  sometimes  pause  in  our  frantic  efforts  to  ex 
plain.  Let  us  sometimes  cast  aside  our  poor  human 
philosophy,  and  stand  under  the  pure  white  of  the 
stars  and  simply  wonder! 

I  hold  that  each  day  should  be  a  great  event  in 
itself,  even  though  nothing  else  but  the  day  happen 
to  you.  But  the  night  is  more  than  an  event.  As 
you  stand  beneath  the  glory  of  such  a  night  as  this, 
some  mysterious  ecstasy,  something  of  growth,  is 
added  to  your  soul.  The  sky  is  no  longer  a  sky  that 
in  the  daytime  seemed  to  cover  you — it  is  an  endless 
space !  To  me,  the  night  seems  deeper  than  the  day 
— richer,  more  vibrant,  nearer  to  the  reality  that 
underlies  all  things,  compared  with  which  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  the  brazen  day  are  but  superficial 
glamour.  At  night,  the  imagination  is  set  free  from 
her  trammels.  The  soul  is  no  longer  the  prisoner 
of  a  planet;  it  takes  on  wings,  it  soars.  During  the 
day,  we  were  citizens  of  the  world;  at  night,  we  are 
citizens  of  the  universe.  It  is  then  that  the  eternal 
seems  to  draw  us  silently,  tenderly,  surely,  into  its 
awful  presence.  Is  it  not  strange  that  night  should 
have  been  considered  the  symbol  of  ignorance,  when 
it  is  more  truly  the  symbol  of  a  deeper  knowledge,  to 
which  it  opens  colossal  gates?  Yes,  night  swings 
ajar  for  us  the  doors  of  the  infinite,  so  that  we 
dimly  see  the  shadows  of  God's  purposes  march  by 
— all  that  has  been  and  evermore  shall  be.  Mysteri- 


At  Night  161 

ous  night !  Symbol  of  the  three  mysteries :  the  Soul, 
Death,  and  God!  No  wonder  that  cathedrals  imi 
tate  thy  dim  shadows  and  thy  brooding  silences;  and 
their  flickering  altar  lights  thy  stars ! 

Sometimes,  on  starlit  nights,  I  walk  from  my 
house  down  the  road,  on  past  the  church  and  the 
cemetery,  to  my  garden,  to  muse  before  going  to  bed. 
As  I  pass  the  church,  I  hear  the  soft,  cottony  flight 
of  the  owls  as  they  go  from  place  to  place  among  the 
ruined  masonry.  Most  often,  when  I  reach  my  gar 
den,  I  do  not  enter,  but  stand  on  the  silent  road  in 
front,  thinking  many  things.  The  murmur  of  the 
poplars  by  the  roadside  is  like  a  distant,  summer 
sea.  But  the  tall  cypresses  near  by  in  the  cemetery, 
they  are  motionless  and  still.  When  the  moonlight 
caresses  them,  how  lovely  their  soft  lights  and  shad 
ows  !  They  sing  to  the  sight. 

As  I  walk  back  past  the  cemetery,  I  look  within 
the  high  iron  gates.  The  great  wooden  cross  where 
hangs  the  life-size  image  of  the  Blessed  Son  of  God 
is  transfigured  as  it  rises  in  the  center  of  the  graves. 
The  moonlight  falls  obliquely  upon  the  face  of  the 
Man  of  Sorrows;  it  gleams  on  His  crown  of  thorns, 
on  His  widestretched  arms  that  reach  out  over  those 
who  sleep  beneath  the  long  grasses. 

At  the  turn  of  the  road,  a  little  farther  on,  is  the 
tallest  poplar  tree  of  all.  How  stately  it  is!  And 
never  so  stately  as  at  night,  when  it  moves  its  head 
majestically  to  the  incantation  of  the  winds,  or  an 
swers  the  breeze  like  ^Eolus'  harp  in  days  of  old,  or 
sings  in  the  moonlight  like  some  giant  minstrel  in 
the  palace-court  of  God.  Often,  as  a  boy,  I  guided 


162  Abbe  Pierre 

my  way  home  by  the  beckon  of  this  same  tree  as  it 
talked  with  the  stars,  its  friends  for  lo,  these  many 
years. 

Perhaps  we,  too,  may  yet  be  worthy  to  talk  with 
stars. 


Chapter  XXI:  St.  Johns  Eve 

MY  faithful  friend,  the  Abbe  Rivoire,  writes 
me  that  he  is  no  better;  he  cannot  even  be 
taken  out  in  his  wheel  chair  to  his  garden. 
And  yet  we  are  in  the  midst  of  that  part  of  the  sum 
mer  whose  mystery  is  tmost  enchanting — when  the 
days  lengthen  to  the  longest  day  of  all;  when  the 
year,  like  a  deep-flowing  river,  widens  to  its  greatest 
glory,  and  pauses  for  a  moment  between  Time's 
banks,  as  if  listening  for  some  ineffable  secret. 
There  is  a  saying  I  learned  when  a  boy;  it  tells  how 
the  days  gradually  increase  in  length,  beginning  with 
St.  Luce's  Day,  just  before  Christmas,  until  June 
24,  St.  John's  Day,  the  longest  day.  As  I  remem 
ber  it,  the  days  begin  to  get  longer  like  this : 

At  the  day  of  St.  Luce, 

The  hop  of  a  flea; 
'At  Christmas, 

The  leap  of  a  calf; 
At  New  Year, 

The  flight  of  a  cockerel; 
*At  St.  Antoine's  Day, 

The  length  of  a  monk1  s  dinner — 

163 


164  Abbe  Pierre 

Which,  therefore,  must  be  rather  brief  and  frugal, 
since  St.  Antoine's  Day  comes  early  in  the  year.  I 
perceive  now  that  I  can  recollect  only  the  commence 
ment  of  this  saying,  which  has  a  great  deal  more  to 
it,  since  it  ends  not  until  St.  John's  Day  is  reached. 
But  another  thing  I  call  to  mind :  They  used  to  tell 
me  as  a  boy  that  if  I  would  put  a  bottle  in  the  sun 
on  St.  John's  Day,  there  would  be  a  time  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  day  when  the  sun's  rays  would  go  straight 
down  through  the  neck,  perpendicularly,  to  the  cen 
ter  of  the  bottom,  and  strike  the  silver  coin  that  has 
been  placed  there.  I  tried  it  once,  so  I  know  that 
this  is  true,  or  almost  true. 

We  pay  much  more  attention  to  St.  John's  Day 
down  here  in  Gascony  than  I  could  observe  them 
doing  up  around  Paris.  It  is  an  ancient  habit  to 
engage  servants  on  St.  John's  Day.  Soon  they  will 
be  needed  for  the  harvest.  In  the  old  time  it  was 
not  infrequent  that  some  one  who  was  going  on  a 
journey  would  remark,  "I  will  return  on  St.  John's 
Day."  In  one  of  our  patois  ballads  there  is  a  Count 
who  goes  away  to  the  wars : 

"For  St.   John's  Feast,"   Count  Arnaud  said, 
"I  shall  come  back,  alive  or  dead." 

Then,  on  the  morn  of  St.  John's  Day,  Count  Ar- 
naud's  mother  climbs  to  the  tower  window,  watch 
ing  for  her  brave  son's  return.  There  at  last  he 
comes! — but  what  is  this? — ah,  Mother  of  God! 
he  rides  slowly  between  two  stranger  knights,  sorely 
hurt,  yes,  wounded  unto  death. 


St.  Johns  Eve  165 

"Qhy  make  the  pillows  soft  for  me, 
But  do  not  let  my  lady  see" 

"O  Count  Arnaud,  your  lady  true 
Has  borne  a  fair  young  son  to  you" 

Alas,  the  ballad  goes  on  to  sing  his  bitter  death; 
and,  just  as  his  dear  lady  comes  to  mass,  all  unknow 
ing  of  her  fate,  the  body  of  her  lover  is  lowered  into 
his  tomb.  Grief-stricken,  she  flings  herself  into  the 
open  grave  with  him,  and  over  the  lovers,  forever 
inseparable,  the  cruel  earth  closes. 

It  is  a  sad  song,  like  so  many  of  our  Gascon  bal 
lads.  To  hear  it  at  its  best,  one  must  hear  Marius 
Fontan  sing  it. 

Market-day  was  Monday;  and  now  it  was  Wed 
nesday.  I  happened  to  meet  Monsieur  Ware  in  the 
morning  on  my  way  to  the  post  office,  and  I 
told  him  that  if  he  and  his  sister  cared  about  it,  this 
very  evening  would  be  St.  John's  Eve,  when  they 
could  see  the  procession  from  the  church  and  the 
ancient  custom  that  is  observed  afterwards,  which  I 
thought  would  appeal  to  Monsieur  Ware's  tempera 
ment,  he  being  somewhat  of  a  poet.  I  told  him  that 
when  it  was  dark,  he  should,  by  all  means,  be  at  the 
ox-market  on  the  south  side  of  the  village,  not  far 
from  the  Chateau  de  Lasalle,  where  he  lives. 

This  ox-market  is  a  large  space,  used  chiefly  on 
fair-days,  about  four  times  a  year.  There  are 
great,  old  trees  there,  and  then  a  considerable  open 
place,  too,  somewhat  elevated,  from  the  edge  of 
which  one  can  get  a  wide  view  of  the  rolling  valleys 


166  Abbe  Pierre 

and  hills  to  the  east  and  south.  It  is  there  that  the 
great  event  of  St.  John's  Eve  occurs. 

One  could  tell  that  something  unusual  was  going 
to  happen  by  the  fact  that  during  the  day  a  number 
of  boys  were  going  about  everywhere  gathering  fag 
ots  and  dry  branches  and  everything  else  that  would 
burn.  To  nearly  all  the  houses  of  the  village  they 
went,  asking  everybody  to  contribute  what  they 
could.  So  that  by  sunset  a  huge  pile  of  inflammable 
material  had  been  heaped  in  the  middle  of  the  ox- 
market. 

When  the  bell  of  the  town  hall  was  striking  nine 
o'clock,  the  twilight  was  deepening  into  darkness, 
the  moon  was  getting  slowly  brighter  in  a  clear  sky, 
and  the  stars  were  becoming  gradually  visible,  first 
one  by  one,  and  then  by  countless  multitudes.  There 
was  scarcely  any  breeze  at  all. 

Then  the  deeper-toned  bell  from  the  church  tower 
echoed  over  the  quiet  roofs  and  out  over  the  val 
leys.  Slowly  from  the  church  the  procession  came, 
winding  down  the  Street  of  the  Church  toward  the 
Place.  Many  children  were  in  the  procession,  and 
at  the  end  of  it  was  our  old  priest,  the  Abbe  Castex, 
with  his  white  surplice  over  his  cassock,  walking  as 
he  always  does,  his  head  bent  forward  and  a  little 
on  one  side,  and  one  hand  behind  his  back.  Follow 
ing  him  was  the  lame  blacksmith,  loudly  singing  the 
responses. 

At  length  the  procession  arrived  at  the  ox-market, 
where  the  people  of  the  whole  commune — those  not 
in  the  procession  itself — were  gathered,  waiting  in 
the  dark.  One  knew  that  there  were  a  great  many 


St.  Johns  Eve  167 

there  by  the  sounds  of  their  voices,  subdued  to  a 
low  murmur  as  the  procession  approached.  Back 
of  them  was  the  dense  darkness  of  the  trees,  but  the 
moonlight  was  strong  enough  to  reveal  the  moving 
mass  of  human  forms  gathered  in  an  irregular  cir 
cle  about  the  pile  of  fagots,  now  almost  as  high  as 
the  convent  school,  whose  dim,  white  gables  could 
be  seen  through  the  trees  toward  the  village. 

A  tall  figure  moves  out  from  the  circling  crowd, 
in  which  the  procession  has  now  lost  itself.  It  is 
the  priest.  The  faint,  sputtering  glow  of  a  sulphur 
match — the  priest  bends  low  toward  the  fagots — 
a  little  flame  springs  up — the  priest  makes  the  sign 
of  the  cross  and  steps  back — the  flames  spread  rap 
idly,  with  a  crackling  noise — they  speed  hungrily  up 
the  dry  branches — they  race  toward  the  top — the 
faces  of  the  great  crowd  suddenly  spring  into  sight, 
the  dancing  lights  contorting  them  weirdly — the 
eager  flames  mount  higher  and  higher,  they  roar, 
they  leap,  they  exult,  they  reach  for  the  sky!  The 
crowd  moves  hastily  back  toward  the  fringe  of  trees, 
whose  outermost  leaves  begin  to  writhe  and  curl  in 
the  heat,  and  whose  far  shades  are  transfigured  by 
the  dancing  flames  into  a  strange  fairyland  of  lights 
and  shadows. 

After  awhile,  when  the  fire  burns  down  a  little, 
one  will  see  some  interesting  sights.  One  will  see 
old  men  and  women  move  as  close  to  the  fire  as  they 
can.  They  are  in  groups  of  two  or  three.  First, 
they  face  the  fire;  then,  one  will  casually  say  to  his 
neighbor, 


168  Abbe  Pierre 

"This  old  fire  is  getting  pretty  warm!" 

This  will  serve  as  an  excuse  for  them  to  turn  their 
sides  and  then  their  backs  to  the  fire.  If  one  watches 
them  for  a  time,  one  will  notice  that  they  go  through 
this  performance  quite  often.  One  will  also  observe 
that  they  move  rather  stiffly,  and  that  some  of  them 
are  quite  crippled  with  rheumatism.  These  have 
come,  several  of  them,  from  far  away  in  the  country, 
because  they  know  that  if  one  stands  in  front  of  the 
fire  blessed  by  the  priest  on  St.  John's  Eve,  and  ex 
poses  himself  on  all  sides,  he  may  be  cured.  Poor 
old  men  and  women !  Some  have  suffered  much  in 
walking  so  great  a  distance,  but  a  faint  hope  and  faith 
is  in  their  hearts — and  who  knows  what  the  good 
God  may  do  for  them  in  His  divine  pity? 

Others,  mostly  women,  take  pains  to  warm  their 
backs  thoroughly  so  they  will  not  get  lame  bending 
over  to  bind  the  sheaves  at  harvest  time.  Then, 
when  the  fire  has  burned  very  low  indeed,  so  that 
the  flames  are  only  a  meter  or  so  high,  it  is  the  turn 
of  the  boys,  to  whom  it  is  great  sport  to  vie  with 
each  other  in  jumping  over  the  fire  without  getting 
burned.  Even  this  leaping  through  the  fire  has  its 
origin  in  ancient  custom,  for  it  was  once  believed  that 
boils  could  be  prevented  in  this  way.  But  the  boys 
know  nothing  of  this — for  them  it  is  merely  a  game, 
as  with  much  bravado  and  shouting  they  leap  through 
the  flames,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  little  devils 
as  they  pass  through,  their  legs  held  close  under 
them  and  their  faces  twisted  with  eery  lights. 

And  now,  when  the  fire  is  almost  out,  and  the 


St.  Johns  Eve  169 

crowd  is  beginning  to  move  homeward,  a  number 
approach  and  seize  upon  some  of  the  charred 
branches,  which  they  carry  away  with  them.  An 
ember  from  the  fire  of  St.  John's  Eve  is  very  potent 
to  keep  the  lightning  from  one's  house,  if  it  is  placed 
on  the  roof.  From  the  night  of  time,  this  has 
been  so. 

I  myself  did  not  wait  to  watch  all  this,  for  just 
as  the  fire  was  beginning  to  burn  brightly,  it  lighted 
up  the  tall  form  of  Monsieur  Ware  as  he  stood  some 
what  apart  from  the  crowd,  over  by  the  trees.  He 
was  alone.  I  went  over  to  him  and  led  him  away 
from  the  fire  some  little  distance  into  the  darkness, 
until  we  stood  on  the  far  edge  of  the  ox-market,  and 
could  look  out  on  the  hills  and  valleys  to  the  east 
and  south. 

I  am  sure  that  Monsieur  Ware  did  not  anticipate 
in  the  least  the  strange  sight  that  greeted  his  eyes; 
for,  after  uttering  an  exclamation  of  wonder,  he 
kept  silent  for  quite  awhile,  contemplating  the  great 
amphitheater  of  space  inclosed  by  the  wide  sweep  of 
the  eastern  horizon.  On  all  the  surrounding  hills, 
far,  far  into  the  distance,  great  fires  like  our  own 
had  been  kindled.  On  every  hill  where  there  was 
a  village,  there  burned  a  fire;  and  down  in  the  val 
leys,  too,  fires  sprang  up,  for  not  all  our  villages  are 
on  hills.  And  even  where  there  was  no  village — only 
a  little  neighborhood  of  houses,  as  on  the  high  hill 
of  the  Bethaut — even  there  the  flames  were  rising. 
And  besides  the  fires,  one  could  glimpse  the  glow  and 
roseate  smoke  of  other  fires  beyond  the  hills  that  hid 
them. 


l?0  Abbe  Pierre 

Those  countless  beacons,  aspiring  to  the  sky,  dot 
ting  the  landscape  in  all  directions,  with  darkness  in 
between  them,  and  a  veiled  moon  overhead,  give  one 
the  impression  of  being  suddenly  translated  to  an 
other  world — the  whole  scene  strikes  one  as  incred 
ible,  unearthly,  supernatural,  something  of  a  mir 
acle. 

As  you  watch,  you  begin  to  perceive  the  truth. 
To-night  all  these  hills,  these  villages,  are  united  in 
a  common  bond  of  sympathy.  They  are  many,  and 
yet  they  are  one.  It  is  their  reunion.  Through  these 
fires,  they  are  recognizing  one  another,  they  are 
fraternizing  with  one  another;  old  differences  are 
forgotten,  and  they  speak.  They  are  signaling  each 
other,  they  are  hailing  each  other. 

Yes,  that  is  the  truth  which  gradually  dawns  on 
you  as  you  look  at  these  beacons  that  spread  to  the 
far  horizon.  These  fires  are  not  merely  fires,  they 
have  something  of  intent  and  meaning.  They  are 
struggling  for  utterance.  These  villages  are  per 
sons,  calling  to  one  another,  attracting  the  attention 
of  one  another.  This  is  what  they  say: 

"I  had  a  great  fete  this  year.  Never  was  a  fete 
like  mine  this  time !" 

It  is  Lupiac,  speaking  from  its  high  hill,  straight 
across  the  valleys  to  the  east. 

A  little  fire  signals  feebly  from  a  far  hill  to  the 
south. 

"I  am  lonely  on  my  hill.  My  brother  village 
across  the  valley  is  gone.  The  tower  of  its  church 
was  torn  down  the  other  day." 


St.  Johns  Eve  171 

Another  beacon  springs  suddenly  into  being  to 
ward  the  north.  The  wind  sways  it  gracefully, 

"I  am  more  beautiful  this  year  than  ever  I  was 
before.  Perhaps  you  will  get  a  reflection  of  my  new 
steeple  from  my  splendid  fire !" 

All  the  rest  of  the  year,  these  villages  are  silent, 
dreaming,  brooding,  morose,  lost  in  the  wide  ex 
panse,  each  in  its  own  sequestered  place.  But  now 
each  is  a  comrade  among  comrades. 

Some  of  them  like  to  speak  of  the  past: 

"I  was  great  once,  but  pestilence  came." 

"Henry  IV  stopped  my  way  once;  the  very  house 
still  stands." 

"There  was  a  day  when  my  grain  helped  feed  the 
armies  of  France !" 

"Nothing  has  ever  happened  to  me.  I  am  al 
ways  peaceful  on  my  little  hill.  My  children  love 


me." 


You  observe  that  each  one  of  these  countless  fires 
has  its  individuality.  Some,  on  the  loftier  hills,  are 
blown  by  a  gentle  wind.  Some  burn  steadily  up 
ward,  calm  and  still.  Some  rise  high  and  thin.  Some 
flare  up  vigorously  and  quickly  die  down.  There  is 
the  biggest  fire  and  the  smallest  fire.  And  they  are 
of  all  shades  of  red  and  yellow  and  orange  and 
gold. 

Sometimes  they  say  sad  things,  such  as : 

"There  is  no  longer  a  priest  here.  But  maybe  the 
good  God  will  come  again  and  rebuild  His  broken 
altar.  I  wait." 

Or,  "My  forest  has  gone.  They  are  burning  the 
last  of  the  old  trees  to-night." 


172  Abbe  Pierre 

Or,  "My  dead  are  neglected." 

Gradually  the  tires  waver  and  break.  The 
farthest  fires  have  diminished  to  dim,  uncertain 
glows.  Far  Auriebat  on  its  high  hill — the  farthest 
of  all — signals  that  all  is  well  in  its  great  valley  of 
the  Adour  and  sinks  into  blackness. 

One  looks  up  from  the  dying  fires  on  earth  to  the 
undying  fires  in  the  heavens.  The  stars — they 
have  seen  and  answered,  too;  the  stars,  God's 
fires  that  burn  there  in  His  infinite  valleys — 
they  speak  nightly  to  each  other  and  never  go 
out.  They,  too,  have  seen  and  answered,  only 
theirs  is  an  infinite  pity;  for  they  were  here,  oh,  so 
long  before  these  little  villages  came  into  being  on 
their  hills;  long  before  there  were  forests,  and  wild 
gorse,  and  broom,  and  rivers  singing  their  way  to 
the  sea.  They  saw  these  same  villages  when  they 
were  girt  with  walls  and  towers,  beleaguered  by 
strange  armies;  when  heroic  deeds  were  done;  when 
the  castles  of  the  lords  rose  proudly  and  defiantly, 
and  the  bells  of  the  churches  first  rang  out  their  holy 
call.  I  say  the  stars  feel  pity  (and  I  hope  regret), 
for  they  will  be  here  when  these  poor  villages  shall 
have  vanished  like  their  fires,  and  shall  have  joined 
their  men  and  women  in  the  dust. 

I  tried  to  say  some  of  these  things  to  Monsieur 
Ware;  but  he  did  not  respond.  He  was  no  doubt 
thinking  his  own  thoughts.  Yet,  although  it  was  out 
of  his  way,  he  insisted  upon  walking  with  me  as  far 
as  my  house,  smoking  his  pipe.  On  parting,  we 
shook  hands  very  warmly,  and  I  could  not  but  feel 
that  somehow  we  were  friends. 


St.  Johns  Eve  i?3 

As  I  stood  in  my  door  for  a  moment  before  going 
up  to  bed,  the  moon  came  from  behind  its  cloud,  and 
a  breeze  whispered  faintly  along  the  shadows  of  our 
little  street. 


Chapter  XXII:  Old  Abbe  Gastex 

AS  I  write  about  the  happenings  of  our  village, 
I  find  myself  mentioning  the  old  Abbe  Castex 
from  time  to  time,  as  is  natural,  since  the  cure 
of  a  village  is  one  of  its  most  important  and  con 
spicuous  personages.  This  forenoon,  as  I  was  going 
toward  my  house,  Monsieur  le  Cure  was  toiling 
slowly  up  the  road  to  the  church.  I  stood  for  a 
moment,  waiting  to  greet  him,  for  he  did  not  yet  see 
me.  As  he  labored  up  the  Street  of  the  Balustrade, 
it  seemed  to  me  that  he  looked  older  and  more  de 
crepit  than  usual.  It  even  occurred  to  me  that  he, 
of  all  others,  might  have  been  tempted  to  warm  him 
self  by  the  great  fire  on  St.  John's  Eve,  for  his  rheu 
matism  was  so  bad  that  only  with  great  difficulty 
could  he  bend  over  to  apply  the  match  to  the  fagots. 
Undeniably,  our  old  cure  was  walking  up  the  hill 
more  slowly  than  usual  this  morning.  His  tall  form 
was  bent  forward,  his  left  hand  held  behind  his  back, 
his  right  resting  on  a  stout  cane,  which  was  extended 
at  an  angle  from  his  body  the  better  to  support  his 
large  frame.  He  was  wearing  that  old,  rusty  hat  of 
his,  and  a  cassock  almost  green  with  age,  especially 
where  the  sunlight  struck  it.  As  he  came  nearer,  I 
thought  that  his  face  looked  pale  and  weary. 

174 


Old  Abbe  Castex  175 

The  Abbe  Castex  has  an  interesting  face,  some 
would  say  a  strong  face.  It  is  rugged  in  its  outlines, 
somewhat  long  and  angular,  with  high  cheek-bones 
and  a  large  chin.  His  head  is  quite  flat  at  the  back, 
and  narrows  up  to  a  shape  resembling  the  end  of  an 
egg.  His  sparse  hair  is  long  and  straight  and  al 
most  white,  with  ragged  wisps  that  reach  out  from 
behind  his  ears  and  over  his  collar. 

As  the  good  cure  came  up  at  last  to  where  I  was, 
he  nodded,  and  then  rested  a  moment  before  he  could 
get  breath  to  greet  me  in  words.  Any  one  hearing 
him  speak  for  the  first  time  would  remark  how  deep 
and  rough  his  voice  is,  vibrating  something  like  a 
loose  drumhead;  it  is  rather  inarticulate,  too,  per 
haps  because  so  many  of  his  teeth  are  gone.  Nowa 
days,  when  the  cure  makes  the  announcements  for 
the  week,  one  must  listen  very  closely  to  know  what 
he  is  saying.  As  for  his  sermons,  one  usually  catches 
only  a  word  here  and  there,  although  sometimes  a 
whole  sentence  becomes  clear,  since  he  is  likely  to 
repeat  himself  often. 

It  is  plain  that  the  Abbe  Castex  is  about  worn  out, 
though,  as  Monsieur  Rigot  said  the  other  day  (in 
tending  to  be  humorous),  what  has  worn  him  out  it 
is  hard  to  tell.  After  all,  he  is  not  so  old  as  some 
priests  around  here,  being  only  seventy. 

In  this  connection,  I  am  reminded  of  a  remark 
of  our  Montaigne:  "It  is  the  body  which  sometimes 
yieldeth  first  unto  age;  and  other  times  the  mind: 
and  I  have  seen  many  that  have  had  their  brains 
weakened  before  their  stomach  or  legs." 

Our  cure  still  has  a  good  appetite,  so  it  is  not  his 


176  Abbe  Pierre 

stomach.  As  for  the  rest  of  him,  it  is  hard  to  say 
which  is  yielding  first.  I  doubt  that  it  is  one  thing 
rather  than  another,  much  as  I  wish  I  could  say  that 
his  mind  is  still  as  clear  as  ever. 

Lately,  they  have  got  to  telling  many  absurd 
stories  about  the  old  cure,  none  of  which  I  am  any 
too  willing  to  believe.  The  one  that  I  credit  least  is 
the  one  about  his  forgetfulness  a  few  weeks  ago  when 
he  was  saying  a  mass. 

The  way  they  tell  it  is  as  follows : 

Two  of  our  well-known  families,  the  Caperans  and 
the  Lacostes,  each  had  made  an  arrangement  with 
the  cure  to  say  a  mass  for  the  repose  of  its  dead. 
One  morning,  both  these  families  appeared  at  the 
church,  each  under  the  impression  that  this  mass 
was  the  one  it  had  arranged  for.  Naturally,  the 
Caperans  were  surprised  to  see  the  Lacostes  there, 
and  the  Lacostes  were  equally  surprised  to  see  the 
Caperans;  for,  besides  Madame  Lacoste  herself,  no 
one  goes  to  early  mass  except  the  cure's  old  house 
keeper  and  a  certain  Belgian  refugee  who  has  settled 
in  our  commune  and  who  is  very  pious — and  in  addi 
tion,  perhaps,  Marie,  the  dressmaker.  After  the 
mass  was  all  over,  Monsieur  Georges  Caperan  went 
up  to  the  cure  and  asked  him  for  the  repose  of  whose 
soul  the  mass  had  been  said.  It  is  reported  that  he 
replied  that  he  did  not  at  that  precise  moment  quite 
recollect,  but  that  he  would  consult  his  book  at  home 
and  find  out. 

"It  is  all  in  my  calendar  somewhere,  so  everything 
is  all  right,  in  any  event." 

It  is  not  necessary  to  give  credence  to  all  that 


Old  Abbe  Castex  177 

people  say,  and  nothing  is  gained  by  believing  a 
story  of  this  sort,  so  why  believe  it,  and,  above  all, 
why  repeat  it? 

But  it  is  easy  to  see  why  people  do  repeat  it.  They 
have  clearly  lost  some  of  their  respect  for  their  old 
cure  and  do  not  care  much  what  they  say — which  is 
a  shame,  whether  this  particular  story  has  some 
truth  in  it  or  not.  I  lament  that  our  people  do  not 
treat  the  cure  with  more  respect,  not  only  for  the 
sake  of  his  holy  office,  but  for  his  own  sake,  espe 
cially  since  he  is  so  old  and  lame.  I  wonder  if  the 
people  who  gossip  about  him  so  lightly  ever  stop  to 
think  that  there  was  a  time  when  our  venerable  cure 
was  young  and  straight  and  strong,  with  all  his  future 
before  him;  that,  though  only  the  son  of  a  poor 
peasant  in  this  very  canton,  he  had  it  in  him  to  lift 
his  thoughts  far  beyond  these  hills  to  God!  Would 
that  they  reminded  themselves  of  the  many,  many 
years  he  has  walked  these  same  hills  on  God's  holy 
errands,  until,  at  last,  the  paths  of  his  youth  are  get 
ting  too  steep  for  him  and  his  thoughts  begin  to  wan 
der  often  to  those  grassy  mounds  where  he  has  helped 
to  lay  the  dead  to  rest,  and  where  he  himself  must 
soon  lie  down  to  sleep ! 

Old  age  like  that  demands  reverence,  not  ridicule. 
If  the  mind  has  lost  its  vigor  and  the  body  its 
strength,  let  reverence  be  seasoned  with  a  little  pity, 
too.  We  stand  in  awe  before  the  dead;  well,  he 
who  has  grown  so  old  that  his  judgment  and  speech 
wander,  and  his  eyes  grow  dim,  and  his  feet  falter — 
such  a  one  has  already  moved  a  little  into  the  en 
folding  shadows,  and  calls  forth  the  same  feeling  of 


1 78  Abbe  Pierre 

awe  as  death  itself  ever  stirs  within  us.  Consider 
him  who,  with  face  averted  from  this  world,  and  in 
creasingly  deaf  to  its  noises,  has  partly  entered  those 
gates  beyond  which  men  discern  only  darkness ;  whose 
eyes,  just  because  they  are  dimming  to  things  of 
earth,  are  becoming  accustomed  to  the  blessed  mys 
teries  we  long  to  know;  and  then  say  whether  such 
should  breed  in  us  a  reverence  accorded  to  nothing 
else  merely  human. 

The  trouble  is  that  some  of  those  who  gossip  most 
about  the  good  Abbe  Castex  are  as  old  as  himself — 
upon  whom,  therefore,  the  reminder  of  the  cure's 
age  has  no  effect  whatever;  although  it  really  should 
appeal  to  them  because  of  the  sympathy  old  people 
ought  to  have  for  one  another — a  sort  of  comrade 
ship  that  belongs  to  those  who  walk  together  in  the 
deepening  twilight.  To  these  I  say,  have  reverence 
for  the  priest's  holy  office  anyway,  which,  if  it  can 
gain  or  lose  in  sanctity  with  time,  ought  to  increase 
its  claims  upon  the  heart  as  the  priest  grows  old  in 
service. 

For,  after  all  is  sajd,  what  human  being  can  pos 
sibly  deserve  that  rare  place  in  our  thoughts  which 
belongs  to  the  venerable  priest  of  one's  own  village? 
When  you  came  into  this  world,  he  it  was  who  chris 
tened  you  with  that  name  by  which  all  men  call  you ; 
he  it  was  that  taught  your  tongue  to  lisp  the  first 
holy  words  of  the  catechism;  he  heard  the  first  con 
fession  of  your  timid  heart,  uttered  with  lips  that 
trembled  in  that  awesome  place  where,  many  times 
since,  you  have  unburdened  your  soul  of  sins  that 
brought  you  tears  of  shame;  he  it  is  that  placed  your 


Old  Abbe  Castex  179 

hand  in  the  hand  of  her  you  loved,  in  holy  marriage ; 
no  one,  as  he,  has  learned  to  know  your  inner  life, 
your  intimate  hopes  and  fears ;  and  he  it  is  that  will 
be  at  your  bedside  to  give  you  the  last  comfort  and 
blessing  before  the  silent  portals  shut  you  out  from 
this  life  forever. 

To  many  in  our  commune,  the  old  Abbe  Castex 
has  been  like  that. 

Only  the  other  day,  he  and  I  were  coming  from 
the  cemetery  together  when  our  conversation  hap 
pened  upon  these  very  matters.  The  cure  was 
saying, 

uThe  priest  stands  between  this  world  and  the 
next;  so  it  is  that  he  belongs  to  neither,  but  to  a 
region  of  his  own." 

He  did  not  say  it  quite  in  these  words,  but  that  is 
what  he  meant. 

Then  we  talked  about  death — I  think  the  old  cure 
was  feeling  his  age — and  I  remarked, 

"It  is  easier  for  a  priest  to  die,  to  pass  into  the 
next  world.  His  vows  have  made  him  already  dead 
to  this  world  with  respect  to  most  of  the  things  men 
prize.  To  the  priest,  this  world  is  valuable  only  as 
a  symbol  and  sign  of  what  lies  beyond." 

I  was  thinking  of  how  all  of  nature's  panorama 
is  a  language  that  suggests  things  we  cannot  see,  and 
that  are  much  more  real.  For  instance,  these  rivers 
flowing  to  the  ocean  tell  me  that  all  things  flow  at 
last,  through  devious  windings,  into  the  ocean  of 
God's  life;  the  flowers  are  God's  words  blossoming 
forth  the  story  of  his  beautiful  compassion;  and  the 
sunsets — who  has  not  seen  in  them  the  prophetic 


l8o  Abbe  Pierre 

glory  that  hovers  over  death,  whether  it  be  the  death 
of  suns,  or  stars,  or  flowers,  or  rivers  falling  toward 
the  seas? 

Such  thoughts  do  we  priests  have,  perhaps  more 
frequently  than  other  men  whose  lives  are  harshly 
bound  to  the  business  of  this  world. 

Although  our  cure  is  old  and  worn  out,  as  I  have 
said,  he  wants  to  do  everything  himself.  He  will 
not  let  the  young  vicar,  who  was  lately  appointed  to 
assist  him,  do  anything  at  all  if  he  can  help  it.  Not 
he — though  people  say  it  would  be  far  better  if  he 
did.  No,  the  old  cure  walks  in  all  the  processions 
of  our  holy  fete-days  and  in  everything  relegates  the 
vicar  to  a  secondary  place.  A  little  while  ago,  be 
fore  I  returned  from  Paris,  our  sacristy  was  burned. 
And  now  our  cure  is  laboring  hard  to  raise  the  money 
to  rebuild  it.  Even  in  this,  which  the  young  vicar 
could  do  very  well,  the  cure  will  allow  no  interfer 
ence.  It  is  he  that  will  do  it,  or  nobody  will  do  it! 
Somehow  this  perseverance  of  the  Abbe  Castex,  in 
spite  of  his  growing  infirmities,  this  reluctance  of 
old  age  to  let  go  of  its  time-honored  tasks,  has  some 
thing  admirable,  something  of  greatness  in  it,  how 
ever  mistaken  it  may  be. 

Lately,  when  it  was  very  warm  in  the  sun,  and 
the  cure  was  perspiring  as  we  were  going  up  the 
street,  I  mentioned  how  other  people  were  able  to 
change  to  cool  clothes,  while  we  priests  had  to  wear 
our  rather  warm  cassocks,  no  matter  what  the 
weather  was.  I  did  not  say  it  in  a  complaining  way, 
but  only  mentioned  it  casually  as  one  might  any  pass- 


Old  Abbe  Castex  181 

ing  fact.  He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  street 
and  said, 

"We  priest?  make  many  sacrifices."  And  then, 
with  a  dry  smile,  "But  we  look  forward  to  something 
in  the  next  world.  It  is  thus  that  we  priests  are  all 
idealists." 

Old  Abbe  Castex  lives  in  a  square,  two-storied 
house  in  the  "back  street,"  facing  a  new  road  that 
leads  out  into  the  country.  There  are  three  worn 
stone  steps  on  each  side  of  the  entrance,  with  slen 
der,  iron  balustrades.  The  double  doors,  once  white, 
have  the  paint  much  worn  off  them,  especially  around 
the  iron  knocker.  In  the  evening,  the  heavy  wooden 
shutters  of  the  upper  windows  are  wide  open,  and 
frequently  one  can  see  the  old  cure  slowly  limping 
up  and  down  in  his  study  with  his  hand  behind  his 
back  and  his  head  bowed  sideways.  Once  in  awhile 
he  pauses  at  the  window  and  looks  out  over  the  hills 
at  the  afterglow  reflected  along  the  eastern  sky. 

From  something  he  said  to  me  this  morning,  I 
am  certain  that  the  Abbe  Castex  will  not  look  out 
from  his  window  over  the  hills  many  times  more. 
He  complained  that  lately  he  had  strange  sensations 
from  the  waist  down.  He  said, 

"Sometimes  my  legs  feel  as  though  they  were 
melting,  like  snow." 

Well,  beyond  the  afterglows  are  the  stars;  and 
beyond  the  stars,  there  is  something  else.  I  some- 
times  fancy  that  the  universe  is  much  larger  than  we 
think.  And  that  it  has  many  doors ! 


Chapter  XXIII:  Aunt  Madeleine  Insists 

THE  pavilion  at  the  top  of  my  garden  is  fin 
ished,  although  it  is  not  painted — and  I  doubt 
that  it  will  be  soon,  for  paint  is  very  expensive 
these  days.  Perhaps  later.  It  has  turned  out  to  be 
a  little  structure,  five  feet  square  and  some  ten  feet 
high,  with  a  gabled  roof  to  shed  the  rain.  The  front 
is  all  open — it  has  no  door  yet,  though  I  think  it  must 
have  a  door.  The  trouble  is,  there  were  not  enough 
boards  left.  Within,  I  have  put  up  a  shelf  along  the 
back  wall.  In  the  center  of  that  is  an  image  of  the 
Virgin  between  two  small  vases  of  flowers.  On  the 
wall,  I  have  fastened  two  unframed  water-colors 
made  for  me  by  Henri.  One  is  a  copy  of  a  picture 
of  St.  Peter,  and  the  other  is  a  scene  in  the  old  city 
of  Auch,  showing  its  steep  streets  and  red  roofs, 
the  cathedral  and  tower  surmounting  all.  Henri 
made  it  while  he  was  a  pupil  at  the  lycee  there. 
Then,  I  have  a  board  that  can  be  supported  next 
to  the  wall,  so  that  I  can  write;  although  when  the 
board  is  in  place  and  I  am  seated,  as  I  am  now,  there 
is  no  room  to  hold  anybody  or  anything  else.  The 

182 


Aunt  Madeleine  Insists         183 

front  of  the  pavilion  faces  east,  toward  my  garden. 
I  have  made  a  little  window  the  height  of  my  head 
when  I  am  sitting,  just  large  enough  to  look  over 
the  hills  to  the  picturesque  village  of  Sabazan,  with 
the  square  tower  of  its  high-backed  church  standing 
out  against  the  sky. 

Since  I  was  in  the  business  of  arranging  things,  I 
thought  it  was  a  good  occasion  to  clean  up  my  gar 
den-house  ;  for  no  matter  where  I  live,  everything 
gradually  becomes  misplaced,  so  that  it  is  hard  to 
find  what  I  want  when  I  want  it.  Especially  my 
many  books  had  gotten  themselves  into  great  dis 
order,  due  to  the  fact  that  I  kept  carrying  them  back 
and  forth  from  my  father's  house  in  the  village  to 
my  garden,  as  I  required  them,  until  now  it  was  diffi 
cult  to  tell  the  whereabouts  of  any  particular  book. 
Some  were  piled  promiscuously  into  a  big  box  by  my 
table  in  the  garden-house;  some  were  heaped  on 
various  shelves  there,  meant  for  flower-pots;  and 
some  were  even  on  the  floor.  As  for  my  study  at 
my  father's  house,  it  was  a  sight  to  see !  My  old 
Aunt  Madeleine  had  become  quite  disagreeable 
about  it,  saying  that  one  could  no  longer  walk  about 
in  the  back  chamber,  where  my  books  lay  scattered, 
without  stumbling  ov.er  some  philosopher  or  saint 
or  poet;  and  she  threatened  to  burn  them  up  straight 
way  if  I  did  not  put  them  in  some  order.  For  that 
matter,  to  be  consigned  to  the  flames  would  be  no 
new  experience  for  some  of  these  same  philosophers 
and  saints,  for  that  is  the  very  way  several  of  them 
perished.  Through  the  portals  of  fire  they  entered 


184  Abbe  Pierre 

heaven !  But  I  wished  to  save  their  tomes  from  any 
such  fate.  So,  yesterday  afternoon  I  set  to  work. 

First,  I  got  my  Latin  pupil  (the  only  one  I  have 
been  able  to  obtain  so  far)  to  abandon  his  lesson 
for  the  day  and  bring  back  a  number  of  volumes 
from  the  garden-house  in  the  wheelbarrow.  He  had 
to  make  several  trips.  I  myself  stayed  in  my  study, 
busily  endeavoring  to  achieve  some  order  out  of  the 
confusion. 

Of  the  five  rooms  over  my  father's  old  salon  de 
coif  lire,  I  have  two;  one  at  the  front,  which  is  my 
bedroom,  and  one  at  the  back,  which  I  sometimes 
dignify  by  calling  my  library.  This  summer  I  have 
not  used  it  much,  since  I  have  found  myself  pre 
ferring  the  garden-house,  except  in  bad  weather.  As 
I  was  trying  to  remedy  the  chaos  into  which  my  books 
had  fallen  here,  I  thought  of  what  Montaigne  said 
of  his  own  library,  which  leads  me  to  suspect  that 
it  was  often  in  no  better  state  than  my  own,  since 
he  confesses  that  without  any  order,  without  any 
method  and  piecemeal,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  turning 
over  and  ransacking  now  one  book  and  now  another, 
musing  and  raving  and  walking  up  and  down,  in 
diting  his  conceits ;  for,  plainly,  Montaigne  could  not 
think  so  well  if  he  was  sitting.  I  am  glad  this  last 
is  not  the  case  with  me,  for  my  library  furnishes  no 
space  at  all  for  walking.  But  then,  perhaps,  my 
thoughts  are  not  worth  inditing,  either — which  may 
prove  that  Montaigne's  method  is  better. 

As  I  call  to  mind  the  other  interesting  things  that 
Montaigne  says  about  his  library,  I  am  persuaded 
that  it  was  sufficiently  unlike  my  own  in  most  par- 


Aunt  Madeleine  Insists         185 

ticulars.  His  was  large,  and  mine  is  small;  his  was 
round,  and  mine  is  square;  his  books  were  five 
shelves  high,  while  mine  reach  to  the  ceiling.  Mon 
taigne's  library  was  in  a  tower  in  the  chief  entry-way 
of  his  house,  and  mine  is  at  the  very  back,  away  from 
the  street;  his  had  three  bay  windows,  and  mine  has 
only  one  window,  and  that  one  of  a  very  ordinary 
sort,  by  which  is  my  table  and  chair.  From  his 
windows,  Montaigne  had  a  rich  and  unrestricted 
prospect,  while  from  mine  the  view  is  shut  out  by 
the  backs  of  houses  that  front  the  next  street — except 
for  a  little  slit  of  space  between  walls,  where  I  get 
a  tiny  but  precious  glimpse  of  the  far  hills  to  the 
east,  and  through  which  the  first  sunlight  of  the 
morning  strikes  my  window.  But  in  one  thing,  at 
least,  my  library  is  like  Montaigne's,  namely,  it  is 
my  seat,  my  throne,  where  my  rule  is  absolute,  where 
I  am  sequestered  from  all  the  things  of  this  world, 
including  even  relatives  and  friends,  save  at  rare 
intervals.  Even  my  Aunt  Madeleine  does  not  enter 
here,  except  when  she  insists  that  her  household  du 
ties  require  it.  And  then  I  warn  her  not  to  disturb 
anything. 

The  view  from  this  back  chamber  of  mine  is  not 
so  bad  as  one  might  think.  Just  across  the  narrow, 
winding  alley,  which  marks  the  line  of  the  old 
fortification  wall,  is  the  little  rectangular  gar 
den  of  Madame  Lacoste,  with  a  path  straight  down 
the  middle  of  it,  and  another  running  completely 
around  it,  bordered  with  flowering  shrubs  of  sev 
eral  kinds.  Then,  there  are  roses,  and  sweet  peas, 
and  some  potted  geraniums,  and  many  other  flowers, 


186  Abbe  Pierre 

too — little  beds  of  them;  and  an  expanse  of  green 
grass;  and  over  in  the  corner,  by  the  wall,  a  dwarf 
pine  tree.  It  is  just  the  same  as  if  it  were  my  own 
garden;  for,  without  leaving  my  chair,  I  can  look 
out  and  enjoy  it  to  my  heart's  content,  under  sun 
light  or  starlight.  Then,  to  the  left  of  this  charming 
garden,  an  ancient  archway  leads  into  the  large 
courtyard  of  what  used  to  be  the  Hotel  Maulezun. 
Through  this  arch,  I  get  just  a  glimpse  of  the  path 
running  in  under  it,  with  the  weeds  along  its  border, 
and  can  see  people  entering,  or  coming  out — only 
this  is  seldom,  for  the  old  hotel  now  lives  mostly  in 
its  memories.  I  sometimes  feel  that  its  old,  brown 
walls  are  trying  to  speak  to  me  across  the  alley  of 
what  they  saw  and  heard  hundreds  of  years  ago, 
when  a  branch  of  cedar  or  pine  was  hung  over  its 
door — the  sign  of  an  inn  in  this  part  of  the  world. 

But  while  I  was  occupied  in  arranging  my  books, 
I  regarded  my  window  only  as  something  to  let  light 
in  on  my  task.  From  the  middle  of  the  chamber, 
where  there  was  not  much  more  than  enough  space 
on  the  floor  for  my  two  feet,  I  surveyed  the  disor 
derly  scene.  Books  everywhere.  How  much  of  my 
life  they  did  indeed  represent !  Great  books — how 
they  signify  epochs  in  a  man's  growth!  Are  they 
not  as  milestones  along  the  highway  the  mind  travels? 

"What  a  fascinating  assemblage  they  are,"  I 
thought;  unot  one  without  a  personality  of  its  own, 
and  each  dressed  in  its  own  costume,  whether  shabby 
and  worn,  or  decked  out  bravely  in  the  latest  fash 
ion  !" — although  these  last  are  in  the  minority  in  my 
library.  They  look  out  on  every  side  from  their 


Aunt  Madeleine  Insists         187 

shelves,  from  floor  to  ceiling;  crowding  one  another, 
jostling  one  another,  some  standing  staunch  and  up 
right,  some  wearily  leaning  against  a  neighbor  for 
support,  a  few  standing  perversely  on  their  heads. 
They  all  have  semblances  of  faces,  some  smiling, 
some  frowning;  some  sedate,  some  trivial;  some  in 
viting,  some  repelling.  Large  books  and  small ;  tall 
books  and  short;  portly  books,  such  as  those  stately 
tomes  of  canonical  law  on  the  top  shelf,  and  thin 
ones  such  as  that  yonder — the  discourse  of  Clemens 
Alexandrinus,  exhorting  the  pagans  to  embrace  the 
Christian  religion.  Arrayed  in  many  moods  of 
leather  they  are,  the  dark  reds  and  browns  predomi 
nating,  many  of  them  beautiful  with  stamped  de 
signs  of  faded  gold;  several  with  heraldic  devices 
on  the  covers — these  came  from  some  noble's  li 
brary,  and  are,  no  doubt,  melancholy  over  departed 
greatness.  Old  books  bound  in  white  skins,  too; 
their  titles  written  in  faded  ink  on  their  backs. 
Books  with  their  leaves  gilt-edged,  and  some  red- 
edged,  and  some  plain-edged,  and  all  alike  mellowed 
with  dust;  books  that  speak  their  lore  in  diverse 
tongues,  some  in  Latin,  some  in  Greek,  some  few  in 
English,  and  a  great  many  in  the  French  of  two 
centuries  ago,  with  their  unfamiliar  spellings,  and 
always  having  on  the  title-page,  With  the  Permission 
of  the  King.  Books  printed  in  big  type,  and  in  little 
type;  with  margins  generous,  and  margins  narrow. 
Books  on  all  subjects,  from  gardening  to  theology, 
from  romances  to  breviaries.  Such  is  my  library. 
My  Aunt  Madeleine  was  right;  these  cluttered 


l88  Abbe  Pierre 

shelves  had  to  be  straightened  out  and  space  made 
for  the  books  on  the  floor. 

Only,  I  have  one  trouble,  and  always  have  had: 
not  more  than  a  few  of  my  shelves  will  accommodate 
the  tall  books;  so  that  volumes  have  to  be  placed 
together  according  to  their  size,  and  not  according 
to  what  they  are  about — which  is  ridiculous,  and 
makes  odd  comrades  now  and  then.  For  instance, 
one  finds  that  infidel,  Voltaire,  rubbing  elbows  with 
the  good  St.  Augustine ! 

I  began  with  the  books  on  the  floor.  There  at 
my  feet  was  that  illustrious  and  eloquent  Father  of 
the  Church,  St.  Ambrose.  I  got  him  out  a  few  weeks 
ago  to  consult  his  interpretation  of  a  passage  of 
Holy  Scripture;  but  the  small  print  of  those  double 
columns  of  his  made  the  task  forbidding.  I  hope 
the  priest  of  St.  Geniez  (that  town  of  cloth-makers) , 
whose  name  is  written  in  the  title  page,  had  better 
eyes  than  I !  I  put  this  ancient  writer  of  hymns  over 
on  the  bottom  shelf  by  St.  Gregory  the  Great. 
There  was  a  wonderful  soul  for  music!  I  wish  I 
owned  his  famous  exposition  of  the  Book  of  Job; 
but  I  am  glad  to  have  this  commentary  of  his  on  the 
Gospels. 

I  have  another  large  tome,  not  so  old,  though, 
as  either  St.  Gregory  or  St.  Ambrose;  it  is  the  works 
of  St.  Theresa,  printed  in  Paris  in  1676.  What  a 
woman,  what  a  woman!  One  of  her  biographers 
speaks  of  her  as  being  born  at  the  very  moment 
Luther  was  secreting  the  poison  which  he  was  to 
vomit  out  two  years  later!  Such  a  holy  servant  of 
the  Church  is  worth  a  million  Luthers.  What  self- 


Aunt  Madeleine  Insists         189 

denial  she  showed  the  world,  scourging  her  flesh, 
wearing  garments  of  rough  hair  and  sandals  of  rope 
— abstaining  from  all  meat,  too,  and  sleeping  on  a 
bed  of  straw.  But  through  the  denial  of  her  body, 
her  spirit  grew  toward  unseen  things  until,  at  last, 
that  heavenly  voice  came,  telling  her  that  no  more 
would  she  speak  with  men,  but  with  angels.  There 
was  one  vision  of  hers  that  has  always  seemed  to  me 
exceptionally  wonderful,  significant  of  deep  and  in 
effable  things — the  one  in  which  she  became,  as  it 
were,  a  frameless  and  infinite  mirror,  with  the  Holy 
Son  of  God  radiant  in  its  center,  and  yet  the  mirror 
at  the  same  time  within  the  Son  of  God  Himself  I 

She,  too,  I  placed  by  St.  Ambrose  and  St.  Greg 
ory  on  the  tall  shelf. 

My  frayed  volumes  of  ecclesiastical  history — 
there  are  twenty  of  them — I  climbed  up  and  put 
them  high  on  the  top  shelf.  He  who  reads  those 
books  through  will  be  learned  in  most  things  worth 
while,  if  he  has  the  mind  to  grasp  it  all.  And  while 
I  had  the  ladder  convenient,  I  took  St.  Augustine 
away  from  Voltaire.  "At  the  Sign  of  the  Cross  of 
Gold" — that  is  where  my  copy  of  St.  Augustine's 
Confessions  was  printed  in  Paris,  two  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago.  I  put  it  next  to  the  six  tomes  of  St. 
Thomas  d'Aquin,  to  make  up  for  my  carelessness. 

Plutarch — ten  volumes  of  him,  translated  into 
French  by  the  learned  Abbe  Ricard  of  Toulouse; 
with  these  put  in  place,  my  floor  was  beginning  to 
get  cleared. 

As  I  was  putting  St.  Cyprian  in  place,  my  Latin 
pupil  arrived  from  the  garden,  laboring  up  the  stairs 


190  Abbe  Pierre 

with  more  books.  Among  them  were  four  well- 
built  volumes  under  the  seductive  title  Critical  His 
tory  of  Superstitious  Practices  that  Mislead  the 
People  and  Embarrass  the  Savants.  I  bought  them 
at  one  of  those  book-stalls  on  the  quai  St.  Michel  in 
Paris,  and  found  them  very  interesting — all  about 
talismans  against  rats  and  rain,  and  any  number  of 
other  unusual  things  I  never  knew  existed.  Verily, 
the  Lebrun  that  wrote  it  would  know  more  now. 

Along  by  St.  Theresa  I  placed  a  book  about  St. 
Basil  the  Great,  although  he  lived  a  good  thousand 
years  before  her.  But  both  were  famous  for  self- 
denial.  I  read  once  how  St.  Basil  journeyed  to  the 
hermit  saints  of  Syria  just  to  learn  all  the  ways  in 
which  one  should  macerate  his  body! 

They  must  have  shown  fascinating  signs  in  front 
of  the  publishers'  houses  in  the  old  days,  judging  by 
what  one  sees  on  the  title  pages  of  some  of  these 
books.  I  have  one,  a  Moral  Theology  for  priests 
and  confessors,  with  the  imprint,  "Under  the  Tree  of 
Jesse."  Another  of  my  books  is  published  by  one 
who  is  to  be  found,  "At  the  Palace,  in  the  Hall  of  the 
Haberdashers,  under  the  Steps  of  the  Court  of  the 
Aides  of  Justice."  I  would  have  gone  far  to  find 
this  Guillaume  de  Luyne,  whoever  he  was,  for  he 
used  most  elegant  type  on  his  pages. 

If  any  one  should  ask  me  which  is  my  finest-look 
ing  tome,  I  should  name  a  stately  one  of  sumptuous 
red  leather,  with  a  gold  coat  of  arms  stamped  in  the 
center  of  the  outer  covers.  It  is  a  Rerum  Gallicorum 
of  1625.  I  sometimes  let  my  Latin  pupil  look  at  it. 

That  is  my  finest  book.     My  oldest  book  is  the 


Aunt  Madeleine  Insists         191 

one  that  contains  the  works  of  St.  Bernard.  It  was 
printed  at  Basle  in  1552.  It  is  very  thick,  having 
nearly  three  thousand  pages.  The  mice  once  got  at 
it — I  observe  that  mice  prefer  very  old  books  and 
papers,  perhaps  for  the  same  reason  that  we  human 
beings  prefer  old  wine;  and  they  have  eaten  a 
ragged  semicircle  into  the  margin  and  have  even 
made  away  with  part  of  the  thick  cover.  But  the 
text  is  still  unharmed.  When  reading  it,  I  do  not 
marvel  that  when  St.  Bernard  spoke,  mothers  con 
cealed  their  sons,  wives  their  husbands,  and  friends 
one  another,  so  that  they  would  not  be  persuaded  to 
follow  him.  I  put  this  famous  crusader  and  silencer 
of  Abelard  up  there  where  the  mice  will  not  be 
tempted  further. 

But  neither  my  finest-looking  book  nor  my  oldest 
book  is  the  book  I  prize  most  of  all.  No,  my  most 
treasured  volume  is  a  breviary  given  me  by  my  old 
teacher  in  the  seminary  in  Paris,  to  whom  I  owe 
my  Latin.  He  was  very  old  when  I  knew  him,  with 
most  of  life's  hopes  dead  and  laid  away,  oh,  so  deep, 
among  the  graves  that  sleep  beneath  the  moonlight 
of  memory.  His  patron  saint  was  St.  Bernard.  He 
taught  me  to  read  him  in  the  Latin  text.  He  was 
wont  to  say  that  he  himself,  who  longed  to  be  like 
St.  Bernard  in  many  things,  had  become  like  him  in 
.only  one  particular :  he,  like  the  great  Saint,  had 
grown  so  old  that  nearly  all  his  friends  were  gone 
before  him. 

The  other  night  I  saw  this  good,  old  man  in  my 
dreams,  his  hair  white  as  snow;  his  pure,  clear  face 
molded  by  the  loving  hands  of  Pain.  In  my  dream, 


192  rAbbe  Pierre 

he  was  smiling  just  as  I  used  to  see  him  smile  at  me. 

His  picture  is  the  only  picture  I  have  in  my  study. 
It  may  be  foolish,  but  I  was  glad  this  morning  to 
notice  that  the  first,  narrow  beam  of  sunshine  that 
visited  my  window  crept  over  gently  and  touched 
his  dear,  old  face. 

He  it  was  who  taught  me  to  love  books. 


Chapter  XXIV:  I  Get  a  New  Pupil 

I  WAS  pausing  for  a  moment  from  arranging  my 
books  and  was  looking  out  my  open  window  on 
Madame  Lacoste's  garden,  where,  in  a  sunbeam 
by  the  wall,  a  swarm  of  small  flies  was  darting  hither 
and  thither,  weaving  the  light  into  invisible  tapestries 
— I  was  standing  at  this  window,  I  say,  when  I  heard 
a  loud  knock  downstairs  at  the  front  door.  If  it 
were  my  Latin  pupil  with  a  load  of  books,  he  would 
not  knock.  So  it  was  not  he.  I  could  hear  my  old 
father  go  to  the  door  and  open  it,  and  a  little  later 
he  called  up  the  stairs  that  Monsieur  Ware  wished 
to  see  me. 

Now,  Monsieur  Ware  had  never  before  called  on 
me  except  at  my  garden-house,  so  I  was  surprised — 
a  little  inconvenienced,  too,  since  I  wished  to  finish 
my  task  before  twilight,  and  so  was  in  no  mood  for 
a  visitor.  Still,  I  thought  it  must  be  something  urg 
ent  that  brought  Monsieur  Ware  to  see  me,  so  I  toldt 
my  father  to  invite  him  to  come  upstairs. 

I  waited  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  up  which  he 
started  two  steps  at  a  time  like  a  boy — I  smiled  in 
spite  of  myself  at  the  ebullience  of  his  humor,  which, 
however,  he  hastily  moderated  when  he  saw  me. 

193 


194  Abbe  Pierre 

"It's  dark  up  here,  Monsieur  PAbbe!"  he  ex 
claimed  laughingly,  for  I  suppose  the  bright  sun 
light  out-of-doors  had  blinded  his  eyes  for  the  mo 
ment.  "Your  father  said  you  were  in  your  library 
up  here.  I'm  interested  to  see  what  it's  like — is 
this  it?" 

Monsieur  Ware  is  so  tall  that  on  entering  the  door 
of  my  chamber  he  instinctively  stooped,  though  I 
think  he  might  have  got  through  unharmed  if  he  had 
walked  upright. 

I  could  hardly  ask  my  visitor  to  be  seated,  for 
both  my  chairs  were  heaped  with  books  that  I  had 
been  sorting  out.  However,  this  did  not  seem  to 
trouble  my  young  friend  in  the  least,  for  even  while 
he  continued  talking  (chiefly  about  how  he  had 
glimpsed  the  Pyrenees  in  the  morning)  he  was  clear 
ing  the  books  from  my  large  chair — it  is  a  heavy, 
wide  one,  like  a  throne,  one  which  my  grandfather 
once  acquired,  I  don't  know  how.  It  must  have  come 
from  some  old  chateau,  stricken  in  its  fortunes. 

I  suppose  such  an  informal  procedure  in  making 
oneself  at  home  is  the  American  way,  and  I  may  get 
used  to  it  after  a  long  time. 

Monsieur  Ware  seemed  to  be  in  no  great  haste  to 
mention  his  errand.  Instead,  he  was  looking  curi 
ously  about  him  at  my  assemblage  of  books  here, 
there,  and  everywhere.  He  got  up  from  my  grand 
father's  chair  almost  as  soon  as  he  sat  down  in  it, 
picking  up  now  one  volume  and  now  another  with 
much  more  interest  than  any  one  has  ever  shown  in 
my  collection.  Of  course,  I  was  pleased  with  this, 


/  Get  a  New  Pupil  195 

although  I  wished  he  would  state  his  business  and  let 
me  finish  my  work.  At  length  he  spoke. 

"Pardon  me,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  I  come  to  borrow 
that  book  on  Gascony  you  promised  to  loan  me." 

Then  I  remembered  I  had  mentioned  Propos  Gas 
cons,  by  Xavier  Cardallac,  which  tells  many  legends 
and  customs.  Madame  Lacoste  it  was  who  pre 
sented  it  to  me.  I  hastened  to  get  it  from  its  shelf. 

But  in  the  meantime,  Monsieur  Ware  was  turning 
the  leaves  of  some  of  the  books  still  cluttering  the 
floor.  He  was  looking  at  the  woodcuts  of  several 
of  the  Popes  in  my  book  on  the  Council  of  Trent 
and  I  saw  him  curiously  examining  Bishop  Lafitau's 
Advice  Concerning  Conduct  Suitable  for  People  In 
Convents  and  Monasteries  and  People  of  the  World. 
It  seemed  strange  to  see  a  young,  modern  American 
looking  at  that! 

I  thought  that  Monsieur  Ware  might  be  interested 
to  know  how  I  obtained  some  of  these  older  books 
of  mine,  so  I  told  him  how,  years  ago,  they  belonged 
to  a  learned  and  much-loved  priest  at  Pouydraguin. 

"Pouydraguin,"  I  went  on,  "is  a  village  you  may 
have  seen  on  the  distant  hill  to  the  southwest  of  your 
chateau.  When  the  old  priest  died,  he  left  all  his 
books  to  the  village  to  dispose  of  as  it  saw  fit.  They 
packed  them  away  in  a  little  dark  room  in  the  town 
hall,  where  they  accumulated  the  dust  of  many  years. 
I  happened  to  know  the  mayor,  and  one  day  he 
opened  the  little  room  and  showed  them  to  me.  He 
said  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  them.  He  of 
fered  them  at  so  many  centimes  a  kilo;  I  took  as 
many  as  I  could  afford — and  here  they  are!  Some 


196  Abbe  Pierre 

that  weigh  the  most  are  worth  the  least;  but,  alto 
gether,  that  day  made  an  epoch  in  my  life." 

I  then  showed  Monsieur  Ware  my  six  tomes  of 
St.  Thomas  d'Aquin,  remarking, 

"Think  of  getting  twelve  kilos  of  the  Angelic  Doc 
tor  for  a  few  francs — he,  whose  pages  are  worth 
their  weight  in  gold!" 

"Did  you  get  this  by  the  kilo,  too,  Monsieur 
1'Abbe?" 

Monsieur  Ware  was  turning  the  leaves  of  a  small, 
thin  volume  which  he  had  already  taken  up  and  laid 
down  several  times.  I  could  not  make  out  just  what 
it  was  from  across  the  room,  so  I  asked  him. 

"It  is  Questions  of  a  Princess,  with  answers  by  one 
Monsieur  Pontier,  a  priest.  Let  me  see — At  Paris, 
1687,  it  says." 

I  told  him  that  this,  also,  was  one  of  the  books 
that  belonged  to  the  old  cure  of  Pouydraguin. 

While  conversing,  I  had  taken  the  liberty  to  re 
sume  the  arranging  of  my  books.  Suddenly,  Mon 
sieur  Ware  laughed.  It  rather  surprised  me,  for 
I  don't  know  when  I  have  ever  heard  laughter  in 
this  quiet  library  of  mine  before,  especially  such 
hearty,  robust  laughter  as  Monsieur  Ware  knows 
how  to  achieve.  In  fact,  I  nearly  dropped  the  Four 
Evangelists  of  Maldonatius,  which  I  was  laboriously 
lifting  to  a  shelf.  I  turned  to  Monsieur  Ware. 
There  was  no  doubt  whatever  that  he  was  more 
than  ordinarily  amused  by  something  he  had  found 
in  the  questions  of  Princesse  Henriette,  Duchesse 
d'Angouleme. 

"I  couldn't  help  laughing,  Monsieur  1'Abbe !    The 


/  Get  a  New  Pupil  197 

author  says  that  his  princess  is  interested  in  many 
sciences  that  seem  to  be  beyond  the  reach  of  her  sex 
— one  can  readily  believe  it  when  one  looks  at  these 
questions  of  hers.'* 

I  did  not  like  this  tone  of  levity. 

"She  was  really  an  exceptional  woman,  Monsieur 
Ware,"  said  I,  perhaps  rather  severely.  Then,  hop 
ing  to  impress  him,  I  added,  "Henry  IV  was  her 
godfather." 

"There  is  nothing  on  earth  or  in  heaven  she 
doesn't  want  to  know.  Listen  to  this  one :  'Why  do 
birds  not  have  teeth?'  And  look  at  this  one:  'Do 
the  angels  speak  with  one  another,  and  in  what 
manner?'  And  here's  another:  'Who  was  the  in 
ventor  of  crowns  and  diadems?'  She  is  insatiable! 
— That  old  prothonotary  of  the  Pope  must  have  been 
sorely  pressed!" 

Now,  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  before  that 
those  questions  were  so  ridiculous ;  but  suddenly  they 
did  seem  just  a  little  absurd.  I  could  see  why,  too. 
For  Monsieur  Ware,  belonging  entirely  to  this  twen 
tieth  century,  with  its  blind  reason,  afforded  a  vio 
lent  contrast  to  the  ideas  of  a  princess,  or  a  priest 
of  two  hundred  and  thirty-three  years  ago.  Such  a 
contrast  might  well  yield  laughter;  but  to  me,  who 
can  so  easily  put  myself  into  the  mood  of  other  cen 
turies,  so  that  I  see  them  with  their  own  eyes,  as  it 
were — well,  I  felt  only  pity  for  Monsieur  Ware  in 
his  narrowness.  I  began  to  feel  that  the  presence  of 
this  ultramodern  American  in  my  old  library  must 
seem  like  an  impertinent  intrusion  to  many  of  my 
beloved  books. 


198  Abbe  Pierre 

"Have  you  seen  the  answers?"  I  asked.  "They 
may  not  be  so  stupid  as  you  think." 

Monsieur  Ware  confessed  that  he  could  not  read 
French  very  well,  especially  the  French  of  this  book, 
because  some  of  the  letters  were  in  the  old  style,  let 
alone  the  faded  ink. 

I  took  the  book  from  his  hands,  and  inquired  which 
questions  aroused  his  curiosity  most. 

"Tell  me  this  one  first:  Why  don't  birds  have 
teeth  ?" 

I  turned  to  the  place,  well  pleased  that  Monsieur 
Pontier  had  a  fair  answer  for  that. 

"It  seems  they  lack  teeth  because  the  material 
out  of  which  their  teeth  would  be  made  is  already 
used  up  in  the  making  of  their  beaks;  it  is  clear, 
therefore,  that  they  cannot  have  both  a  beak  and 
teeth  at  the  same  time." 

"That's  great!"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Ware.  But 
I  knew  that  for  some  reason  he  was  still  making 
fun  of  Monsieur  Pontier's  book,  although,  after  all, 
the  answer  of  a  modern  scientist  would  not  be  much 
better,  only  put  in  more  formidable  language,  with 
some  such  words  as  "adaptation,"  and  "adjustment," 
and  the  like. 

"Do  you  think  that  one's  character  is  revealed 
by  the  nature  of  one's  hair,  Monsieur  1'Abbe?" 

This  seemed  a  strange  question,  and  then  I  re 
membered  it  was  one  of  those  in  the  book.  I  had 
forgotten  the  answer,  so  I  looked  it  up. 

The  answer  is,  Yes.  Monsieur  Pontier  mentions 
that  animals  with  coarse  hair  are  generally  stronger 
and  more  courageous,  such  as  lions  and  boars.  On 


/  Get  a  New  Pupil  199 

the  other  hand,  the  timid  animals,  like  sheep  and 
rabbits,  have  soft  hair.  As  with  animals,  so  with 
men — so  says  the  book. 

"Rather  hard  on  me,"  laughed  Monsieur  Ware, 
running  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  which  is  fine, 
and  of  a  light  color.  "But  go  on." 

I  then  read  what  Monsieur  Pontier  says : 

"Those  who  have  the  hair  of  another  color  at 
the  head  than  at  the  beard  are  usually  dangerous 
men.  This  diversity  in  them  is  an  indication  of  the 
inequality  of  their  humors,  which  makes  them  vari 
able,  hypocritical,  and  dissembling,  if  they  do  not 
correct  their  bad  nature  by  good  morals,  as  Socrates 
and  others  did." 

At  this,  Monsieur  Ware  asked  for  the  book,  al 
though  I  myself  was  really  getting  tired  of  the  whole 
matter.  I  was  hoping  he  would  lay  it  down,  when 
he  pointed  to  the  question  which  asks  why  God  com 
manded  Noah  to  make  an  ark  to  save  himself  from 
the  waters  of  the  Deluge,  instead  of  a  strong  and 
high  tower  on  the  highest  part  of  the  world,  so  that 
he  would  not  be  forever  in  motion  and  within  two 
fingers  of  being  wrecked. 

I  was  able  to  give  the  answer  without  the  book. 
Monsieur  Pontier  points  out  rightly  that  God  does 
not  wish  his  servants  to  lead  an  easy  life.  So  an 
ark  was  better,  because  then  Noah  could  not  guess 
certainly  whither  he  was  going,  and  thus  he  would 
more  readily  abandon  himself  to  God's  protection 
and  guidance. 

I  also  told  Monsieur  Ware  how,  it  is  said,  the 


200  Abbe  Pierre 

beasts  were  called  into  the  ark,  for  I  was  certain  he 
had  not  heard  of  it.  The  tradition  is  that  Noah 
used  an  instrument  of  wood,  fourteen  feet  long. 
This  was  struck  with  two  wooden  mallets,  producing 
a  very  loud  and  reverberating  noise.  Some  Eastern 
Christians  still  call  their  worshipers  that  way,  in 
stead  of  using  bells.  So  says  Jerome  Magius. 

At  this  moment,  my  little  Latin  pupil  arrived  in 
the  doorway  with  his  last  load  of  books  from  the 
garden-house.  In  very  truth,  it  was  a  miscellaneous 
lot  that  his  arms  carried,  an  unwieldy  lot,  too,  for 
as  he  tried  to  lay  them  down,  they  all  tumbled  in  a 
motley  heap  on  the  floor.  I  hastened  to  pick  up  a 
cherished  volume  of  Lamartine — ah,  there  is  lan 
guage  which,  as  you  read  it,  fills  your  eyes  with 
dreams !  Then  a  volume  of  Browning's  poems, 
some  of  which  I  mentioned  I  had  read  and  found  a 
little  cumbrous. 

But  it  appears  that  Browning  is  one  of  Monsieur 
Ware's  favorite  poets,  concerning  whom  he  gives 
lectures,  and  at  my  mention  of  him  he  became  en 
thusiastic  at  once. 

"He  may  be  cumbrous,"  he  replied,  "and  when 
he  woos  Music,  it  is  often  with  such  whole-souled 
heroism  that  she  is  frightened  to  flight.  Yet,  when 
he  sings,  he  sings  deep  things  from  a  mighty  spirit; 
and  in  her  triumphal  progress,  Truth  uses  all  wea 
pons,  the  battering  ram,  as  well  as  the  lance.  The 
sweet  murmur  of  Apollo's  lyre  is  ever  godlike,  but 
godlike,  too,  the  thunder  of  Jove  and  the  hammer 
ofThor!" 

All  this  sounded  a  little  grandiloquent  to  me.    But 


I  Get  a  New  Pupil  201 

Monsieur  Ware  was  welcome  to  his  opinion.  I,  too, 
like  all  kinds  of  poets,  each  in  his  own  way,  but 
Browning's  way  is  beyond  me,  I  fear. 

There  were  also  some  philosophical  books  in  this 
last  load.  Some  of  them  were  not  entirely  ortho 
dox,  which  led  Monsieur  Ware  to  remark  that,  in 
his  opinion,  I  was  inclined  to  be  liberal  in  my  re 
ligious  views. 

"It  is  a  sort  of  proof,"  he  added,  smiling,  "to 
see  the  infidel,  Voltaire,  over  there  on  your  shelf.'* 

This  made  me  a  little  vexed,  for  I  hate  most  of 
the  incredible  things  that  Voltaire  has  written. 
There  are  some  writers  with  thoughts  that  poison 
the  blood;  that  make  Hope  cry  aloud  in  the  streets 
of  reason.  Such  is  Voltaire.  But  I  only  answered, 

"The  best  of  the  philosophies  of  men  may  be 
good  enough  to  defend,  but  not  one  of  them  is  good 
enough  to  live  by." 

I  know  this,  for  have  I  not  taught  philosophy  for 
forty  years? 

I  could  see,  though,  that  Monsieur  Ware  himself 
put  great  trust  in  human  reasoning;  so  I  hastened 
to  assure  him  that  even  some  of  the  lower  animals 
know  some  things  better  by  instinct  than  we  do  by 
our  boasted  reason. 

"But  how  about  your  beloved  Montaigne  that  you 
quote  so  often?  Why,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  you  are 
liberal  in  spite  of  yourself.  Your  famous  Gascon 
skeptic  was  not  any  too  religious,  to  my  thinking!" 

Well,  what  if  I  do  admire  Montaigne  and  am 
proud  of  all  my  editions  of  him,  especially  that  of 
Le  Clerc,  and  the  four  volumes  by  Louandre,  bound 


202  Abbe  Pierre 

in  blue  and  gold,  with  the  leaves  edged  in  gold  all 
around? 

I  asked  Monsieur  Ware  if  he  himself  did  not  like 
Montaigne. 

"Yes,  I  like  him,  so  far  as  I  have  read  him.  Our 
Emerson  mentions  the  tomb  of  somebody  in  the 
cemetery  of  Pere-Lachaise,  on  which  it  is  recorded 
that  he  lived  to  do  right,  and  'formed  himself  to 
virtue  on  the  Essays  of  Montaigne.'  In  spite  of 
that,  I  think  Montaigne  is  sometimes  disgraceful  in 
his  morals." 

I  felt  like  quoting  what  Montaigne  himself  once 
wrote  about  books — "no  good  without  pains;  no 
roses  without  prickles. "  But  I  forbore. 

"If  there  are  passages  in  Montaigne  that  are  bad 
for  one,  well,  one  should  not  read  them,"  I  replied, 
smiling.  "As  for  me,"  I  continued,  "if  a  man  like 
Montaigne  has  written  lines  that  are  questionable, 
perhaps  he  has  harmed  himself  enough  through  the 
very  writing  of  them  without  our  punishing  him 
further  by  not  reading  him — besides  depriving  our 
selves  at  the  same  time.  Anyway,  these  questionable 
parts  are  the  exceptions,  and  one  need  not  look  for 
them." 

I  might  have  added  that  we  old  people  can  read 
what  the  young  cannot;  and  that  if  Montaigne  some 
times  antagonizes  my  faith,  he  has  no  other  effect 
than  to  strengthen  it,  which  is  an  excellent  thing  to 
accomplish,  even  if  he  did  not  intend  it.  Many 
times,  too,  he  has  set  me  to  contriving  how  to  com 
bat  opinions  with  which  I  do  not  coincide. 

At  any  rate,  there  is  no  need  for  assailing  Mon- 


I  Get  a  New  Pupil  203 

taigne.  He  has  faults;  but  in  spite  of  them,  he  is 
our  greatest  Gascon  writer.  In  Paris  from  the  very 
first,  my  fellow-scholars,  especially  the  Abbe  Rivoire, 
expected  me  to  know  him,  I  being  a  Gascon ;  and  so 
I  determined  not  to  disappoint  them. 

It  was  not  until  Monsieur  Ware  had  risen  to  go, 
and  had  even  got  as  far  as  the  door,  that  I  learned 
the  real  reason  of  his  visit.  It  was  not  the  book 
on  Gascony  that  had  brought  him  to  my  house  after 
all,  although  I  had  given  it  to  him,  and  he  held  it  in 
his  hand.  No,  he  confessed  that  it  was  something 
else,  far  more  important,  although  he  seemed 
strangely  hesitant  about  mentioning  it. 

Although  Monsieur  Ware's  French  has  been  im 
proving,  it  is  still  very  bad.  Most  of  the  time  we 
have  conversed  in  English,  for  my  English  is  better 
than  his  French,  if  I  may  say  so.  But  I  was  not  pre 
pared  for  what  Monsieur  Ware  had  to  propose. 

"I  hesitate  to  ask  you,  Monsieur  PAbbe,  but  I  was 
wondering  if  you  would  not  give  me  lessons  in  French 
— if  you  can  at  all  spare  the  time.  You  know  how 
wretchedly  I  speak,  and  I  have  many  reasons  for 
wanting  to  do  better !" 

I  could  think  of  one  reason,  which  I  suspected  to 
be  the  principal  one.  In  other  words,  Germaine 
Sance  cannot  speak  English.  That  was  the  reason, 
no  doubt!  One  did  not  require  much  subtlety  to 
guess  that! 

The  trouble  with  Monsieur  Ware's  French  is  that 
he  knows  chiefly  nouns  and  a  few  adjectives,  but  is 
very  scant  in  verbs.  One  can't  build  successful  sen 
tences  that  way.  I  hold  that  the  substantives  of  a 


204  rAbbe  Pierre 

language  are  the  stones,  and  the  verbs  the  mortar. 
Monsieur  Ware  has  no  mortar.  He  sometimes 
makes  ridiculous  mistakes. 

Incontestably,  Monsieur  Ware's  French  needed 
mending.  But  did  I  care  to  undertake  it? 

"You  see,  it  is  this  way,  Monsieur  1'Abbe :  I  have 
full-fledged  thoughts,  but  here  in  Gascony  they  can 
not  fly;  they  are  enmeshed  in  the  net  of  articu 
late  ignorance,"  he  added,  laughingly.  "One  might 
become  lyrical  about  it  if  it  were  not  all  such  a  pity, 
and  say  that  here  my  thoughts  are  as  seeds  hidden 
in  the  dark  ground,  struggling  for  the  light  in  vain. 
They  are  cries  from  a  far-sunk  cavern,  that  mock 
themselves  with  echoes,  and  never  attain  an  under 
standing  ear!" 

I  asked  Monsieur  Ware  how  long  he  was  to  re 
main  here  in  Aignan. 

"I  do  not  know  yet — perhaps  for  the  rest  of  the 
summer.  My  sister  does  not  want  me  to  go  away. 
I  am  willing  to  pay  you  whatever  you  ask,  Monsieur 
1'Abbe." 

"You  need  pay  me  nothing,"  I  hastened  to  say. 
"You  shall  improve  your  French;  and,  in  return,  I 
will  be  improving  my  English.  Come  to-morrow 
afternoon.  I  shall  be  in  my  garden  as  usual.  We 
can  begin  then." 

So  it  was  arranged.  I  saw  Monsieur  Ware  down 
to  the  front  door,  and  then  returned  upstairs  to  my 
chamber. 

There  have  been  three  epochs  in  my  acquaintance 
with  Monsieur  David  Ware.  The  first  was  when 
I  heard  that  he  and  Germaine  had  come  to  know 


I  Get  a  New  Pupil  205 

one  another.  The  second  was  on  St.  John's  Eve, 
when  I  began  to  feel  that  we  were  friends.  The 
third  was  to-day,  when  I  consented  to  teach  him 
French. 

While  I  was  thinking  of  this,  the  sun  had  been 
setting,  and  my  books  were  getting  dim  in  the  be 
ginnings  of  twilight.  All  at  once  my  Aunt  Made 
leine  called  up  the  stairs,  "A  table!"  so  I  had  to  get 
ready  to  go  down  to  supper,  for  my  Aunt  Madeleine 
does  not  encourage  delays  at  such  times.  I  would 
have  to  tell  her  that  my  books  were  not  yet  fully 
put  in  order,  after  all. 

"But  I  have  a  new  pupil,  anyway !"  I  said  to  my 
self,  as  Aunt  Madeleine  again  called  up  the  stairway, 
much  louder  than  before. 


Chapter  XXV:  The  Road 

YESTERDAY  was  the  last  day  of  June.  Of 
course,  I  could  put  it  just  as  well  by  saying 
that  to-day  is  the  first  of  July,  yet,  after  all, 
that  would  be  saying  something  entirely  different. 
For  July  is  yet  the  veriest  stranger;  true,  it  is  just 
as  real  as  any  unknowable  future  is  real;  still  it  is 
yet  but  a  blank  page  for  which  I  have  hope,  but  not 
affection.  On  the  other  hand,  June  is  recorded  and 
done  and  has  achieved  a  place  in  my  life  that  nothing 
can  change.  This  year's  June  has  been  filled  with 
days  worthy  to  keep  in  memory,  some  for  their  quiet 
joy,  and  some  for  that  deeper  thing  than  joy,  which 
brings  the  sad  notes  into  life's  music.  Perhaps  that 
deeper  thing  which  sings  through  all  our  thoughts 
like  an  infinite  sigh  speaks  from  the  great  heart  of 
God;  the  same  sad  murmur  of  song  that  often  whis 
pers  up  through  the  winding  ways  of  recollection  and 
dims  our  eyes,  we  know  not  why. 

So,  yesterday  was  the  last  day  of  June.  In  the 
afternoon,  Monsieur  Ware  came  for  his  first  lesson 
in  French  and  stayed  about  an  hour.  I  find  much 
that  satisfies  me  in  this  young  American.  Although 
I  have  known  him  so  short  a  time,  yesterday  he  asked 

206 


The  Road  207 

me  in  his  boyish,  frank  way  to  call  him  by  his  first 
name  if  I  did  not  mind,  since  we  were  to  be  together 
so  much.  "David."  I  asked  him  just  how  his 
friends  pronounced  this  name,  but  he  said  that  in  this 
instance  he  would  prefer  that  I  use  the  French  pro 
nunciation.  Assuredly,  I  prefer  it  myself ! 

Later  in  the  day,  something  happened  that  both 
ered  me  a  little  when  I  got  to  thinking  about  it.  I 
was  walking  up  the  Street  of  the  Church  from  my 
garden  to  my  father's  house,  when  I  heard  the  rau 
cous  horn  of  the  little  doctor's  automobile  echoing 
along  the  street  back  of  me.  Just  as  I  hastily  stepped 
to  one  side  by  the  covered  poultry  market,  he  caught 
up  with  me  and,  stopping  suddenly  with  a  shrill 
rasping  of  brakes,  told  me  that  he  had  just  been  out 
into  the  country  to  see  a  peasant  family  by  the  name 
of  Massat.  The  mother  had  given  birth  to  a  child, 
which  had  died  the  second  day,  and  while  she  was  not 
dangerously  ill,  she  needed  looking  after. 

I  said  that  I  would  inform  the  cure,  whom  I  was 
to  see  a  little  later. 

And  now  I  come  to  the  thing  that  bothered  me. 
I  had  noticed  the  little  doctor  looking  at  me  more 
closely  than  usual,  and  as  he  started  to  leave  me,  he 
called  out  above  the  terrific  noise  of  his  engine, 

"You  had  better  take  care  of  yourself,  Monsieur 
1'Abbc!" 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  noticed  for  several  morn 
ings  when  I  looked  into  the  mirror  that  I  did  not 
appear  as  well  as  usual.  Perhaps  the  reason  is  that 
I  have  not  been  getting  enough  out-of-door  exercise. 
Although  I  have  spent  much  of  my  time  in  my  garden 


208  Abbe  Pierre 

lately,  it  has  been  mostly  in  my  garden-house,  or, 
if  not  there,  in  my  little  pavilion,  putting  down  these 
thoughts  of  mine,  or  perhaps  reading  on  my  bench 
under  the  fig  tree.  Then,  too,  I  have  been  known  to 
sit  up  late  in  my  library  at  home,  recording  the  events 
of  the  day,  before  I  should  forget  them;  indeed,  my 
old  Aunt  Madeleine,  seeing  my  lamp,  has  had  to  re 
mind  me  several  times  that  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

The  fact  is,  I  have  kept  from  growing  old,  in 
spite  of  my  sixty-five  years,  by  three  simple  devices : 
plain  food,  regular  sleep,  and  long  walks.  But  I 
have  been  woefully  neglecting  those  walks  of  mine 
lately.  So,  this  morning,  even  as  I  was  on  the  way 
to  mass,  I,  Abbe  Pierre  Clement,  made  up  my  mind 
to  reform.  This  very  afternoon,  I  would  begin  by 
walking  out  the  road  into  the  country. 

As  I  was  ever  telling  my  friend,  the  Abbe  Rivoire, 
there  is  nothing  in  all  the  world  like  the  roads  of 
Gascony!  Especially  this  part  of  Gascony.  Golden 
threads  they  are  of  the  rich  tapestry  that  is  our  land 
scape;  golden  threads  that  weave  in  and  out  in  ran 
dom,  graceful  lines  that  hold  together  the  confusion 
of  hill,  and  valley,  and  village,  and  vineyard,  and 
forest,  lending  them  unity  and  figure.  The  roads  of 
Gascony !  How  well  my  boyhood's  feet  knew  every 
pleasant  turn  of  them  for  miles  around !  How  often, 
when  far  away  in  Paris,  I  dreamed  of  these  same 
roads  as  of  old  friends,  caring  more  for  them  than 
for  all  the  glamour  of  those  strange  city  streets, 
bordered  by  walls  instead  of  smiling  hedgerows; 
where  the  stone  sidewalks  (tombstones  over  dead 
Nature !)  took  the  place  of  grasses  and  wild  flowers. 


The  Road  209 

If  the  roads  of  Gascony  were  all  erased  and  a 
poet  should  build  them  again  as  he  would  like,  he 
could  do  nothing  better  than  to  put  them  back  just 
as  they  are.  Look  at  them — what  more  does  one 
want?  Winding  roads  and  straight;  up  hill  and 
down;  shady  roads  and  sunny;  lonely,  peaceful  roads, 
and  roads  friendly  with  red-roofed  houses  and  barns ; 
little  roads,  hardly  wider  than  lanes,  bordered  with 
the  encroaching  grasses,  and  great,  broad  highways 
like  that  from  Bayonne  to  Toulouse;  roads  arched 
by  tall  poplars,  and  roads  arched  by  the  sky;  roads 
old  and  roads  new,  but  mostly  very  old,  and  so  not 
without  their  legends  and  stories;  they  have  known 
the  feet  of  countless  peasants;  they  have  known  the 
carriages  of  kings.  Why,  there  is  a  little  lane  just 
beyond  the  house  of  Marie,  the  dressmaker,  along 
which  "our  Henry"  once  went  on  his  way  from  Nerac 
to  his  castle  in  Pau !  Ever  since,  they  have  called  it 
the  Lane  of  the  King. 

And  all  these  roads  are  brave,  indomitable  roads, 
conquering  every  hill  that  comes  in  their  way,  how 
ever  high,  some  of  them  stopping  only  at  the  Pyre 
nees,  which  is  the  wall  of  the  world !  And  all  these 
roads  are  bordered  by  hedges,  without  which,  in  my 
opinion,  a  country  is  undressed  and  bare;  hedges 
trimmed,  and  hedges  uncut — ragged  and  wild  and 
high,  such  as  I  like  the  best  of  all.  And  all  these 
roads  lead  somewhere — climb  somewhere,  descend 
somewhere — to  a  pleasant  town,  and  then  on  through 
other  pleasant  towns,  threading  them  like  jewels 
along  their  winding  ways — all  except  the  littlest 
roads,  that  keep  away  from  villages  and  dream  their 


210  Abbe  Pierre 

sequestered  courses  between  vineyards  and  tiny 
farms,  or  lead  to  cool  springs  and  quiet  places  in  the 
heart  of  the  woods. 

But,  after  all,  these  roads  are  so  interesting  only 
because  they  belong  intimately  to  the  drama  of  life; 
only  because  men  and  women  travel  on  them  and 
build  their  houses  by  them.  Beside  some  road  in 
the  world  each  man  has  a  place  that  he  calls  home; 
and  the  road  that  leads  home,  that  is  the  most  blessed 
road  of  all! 

I  like  to  think  of  these  homes  of  Gascony  that 
nestle  by  the  road,  often  so  close  that  they  seem  to 
love  it.  Plain,  honest,  rectangular  houses  they  are, 
most  of  them,  but  picturesque  for  all  that,  with  their 
gabled  roofs  of  red  tile,  and  their  plastered  walls, 
and  their  weather-worn,  wooden  shutters,  and  over 
the  door  a  grapevine  growing  against  the  light  green 
stain  left  by  the  spraying.  Those  grapes,  high  in  the 
sun,  will  be  the  first  to  ripen,  too!  And  there  are 
the  barns,  and,  most  likely,  a  covered  archway  some 
where  between  buildings,  leading  to  an  inner  yard 
and  affording  shelter  for  a  load  of  hay,  or  whatever 
one  wants  to  keep  from  the  rain.  And  perhaps  a 
pond  for  the  ducks  and  geese,  and  a  stack  of  straw 
with  a  tall  pole  rising  from  the  middle  of  it,  and 
vineyards  stretching  beyond. 

And  then  that  great  artist,  Time,  has  touched  so 
many  of  these  homes  and  given  them  beauty.  He 
works  patiently  on  the  tile  roofs  until  they  become 
saggy  and  delightfully  undulating  and  irregular. 
He  pulls  at  the  plaster  here  and  there  with  the  eager 
help  of  the  wind  and  the  rain  and  the  frosts,  and  it 


The  Road  211 

crumbles  piecemeal,  revealing  the  rough,  yellow  stone 
and  clay,  and  the  wooden  beams  underneath.  I  sup 
pose  people  first  put  plaster  on  the  outside  of  their 
homes  to  conceal  these  things;  but  now,  even  when 
a  Gascon  house  is  built  of  good,  smooth  stone,  in 
blocks  that  would  be  fair  to  see,  they  cover  it  with 
plaster,  too !  Such  is  the  power  of  custom  over  men ! 

In  all  these  houses  along  the  road  there  are  human 
souls,  living  out  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  myste 
rious  thing  we  call  life ;  and  the  homely  signs  of  their 
presence  are  everywhere — a  scythe  hung  neatly  by 
the  front  door;  a  rough,  round  broom,  for  sweeping 
the  yard,  leaning  by  the  step;  a  wild  boar  skin  nailed 
up  on  the  wall  in  the  sun;  newly-washed  clothes 
spread  over  the  clean,  rain-cleansed  hedges  to  dry; 
ridiculously  simple  things  all  these,  but  the  miracle 
of  love  may  have  come  along  this  road  to  dwell  here 
and  to  give  such  common  things  their  infinite  mean 
ings.  Hark!  one  hears  the  swift  patter  of  children's 
feet  through  an  archway,  and  the  laughter  that  makes 
a  lyric  of  the  humblest  road  that  ever  climbed  a 
Gascon  hill  to  the  sun ! 

Look  up  that  same  road  to  the  summit,  and  just 
as  likely  as  not  one  will  see  one  of  our  Gascon  wind 
mills,  through  whose  desiccated  roofs  one  can  glimpse 
the  sky.  The  old  windmills  of  Gascony!  They  are 
the  ancient  troubadours  of  the  landscape,  that  have 
sung  their  songs  to  the  wind,  and  sing  them  no  more, 
no  more!  One  often  sees  them  on  the  little  hills, 
round  in  shape,  builded  of  rough  stone,  about  thirty- 
five  or  forty  feet  to  the  tip  of  their  conical  roofs, 
with  one  door,  and  a  few  square  windows  under  the 


212  Abbe  Pierre 

eaves,  and  the  dilapidated  framework  of  four  huge 
arms,  so  long  that  when  they  turn  they  almost  sweep 
the  ground.  In  other  days,  it  was  a  merry  sight  to 
see  these  long  arms  turning,  their  white  canvas  sails 
full  spread,  flashing  in  the  sun. 

But  the  canvas  sails  are  gone  now;  only  the 
broken  skeletons  on  which  they  were  stretched  re 
main,  vivid  against  red  sunsets.  The  great  arms  turn 
no  more,  and  the  walls  are  in  all  stages  of  decay. 
Grasses  and  gorse  and  weeds  grow  long  at  their 
feet,  and  the  old  path  that  led  to  them  is  overgrown 
and  lost.  The  long,  slender  ladder  that  led  up  to 
the  roof  at  the  back  still  leans  there,  perhaps,  but  its 
days  are  numbered.  Ruined  and  lonely  on  their 
summits,  the  old  mills  look  as  if  they  had  been 
worsted  in  a  joust  with  some  giant  Don  Quixote, 
who  had  stepped  back  across  the  Pyrenees  and  aban 
doned  them  to  desolation  and  defeat. 

It  is  so  much  easier  now  to  send  the  wheat  to  the 
mill  at  Plaisance  or  at  Betous.  The  waters  of  the 
Arros  and  the  Midour  do  the  work  the  wind  used 
to  do.  It  is  an  improvement,  they  say. 

But  often,  when  I  walk  out  the  road,  I  wonder  if 
what  we  call  modern  improvements  will  not  take  out 
of  civilization  all  of  its  picturesque  beauty.  Gone 
are  battlemented  walls,  and  donjon-towers,  and 
ancient  brass  lamps,  and  gilded  coaches,  and  tapes 
tries,  and  cloths  of  gold;  and  now  our  old  wind 
mills,  too,  are  soon  to  mingle  with  the  dust  that  was 
once  the  living  heart  of  yesterday.  After  a  time, 
what  will  be  left  for  the  poets  to  write  about?  Or 
are  they,  too,  to  vanish  at  last? 


The  Road  213 

To  me,  walking  out  the  road  takes  on  the  charac 
ter  of  an  adventure.  The  roadway  is  the  greatest 
theater  in  the  world.  On  it  is  staged  a  continuous 
drama,  of  which  one  knows  neither  the  beginning  nor 
the  ending,  so  it  is  the  more  fascinating,  since  it 
gives  the  imagination  free  play.  On  our  Gascon 
roads,  everybody  knows  everybody,  speaks  to  every 
body.  It  is  always,  "Bonjour,  Monsieur!"  or  "Bon- 
jour,  Monsieur  et  Dame!"  spoken  cordially.  One 
meets  many  children  on  the  way  to  or  from  school — 
sometimes  they  have  to  go  far — with  their  bags  of 
books  and  their  wide-brimmed  straw  hats,  covered 
with  white  cloths  to  shield  their  little  heads  from 
the  sun.  Nearly  always  respectful  they  are,  and  well- 
behaved,  greeting  one  courteously  and  taking  off  their 
hats.  One  will  meet  boys  with  arbalests  twenty-five 
feet  long  on  their  shoulders;  they  are  on  their  way 
to  hunt  frogs.  Two-wheeled  carts  rattle  by,  as  the 
driver  cracks  his  whip  and  calls  out  a  greeting.  One 
rarely  sees  an  automobile,  and  then  it  is  likely  to  be 
a  large  truck,  loaded  high  with  huge  wine  casks. 
At  a  turn  of  the  road,  one  possibly  hears  shrill  cries 
from  peasants  standing  in  a  farmyard;  they  are  look 
ing  up  at  the  sky  where  great  buzzards,  whose  home 
is  in  the  forest,  are  circling  nearer  and  nearer, 
threatening  the  chickens;  the  weird  cries  are  to  warn 
them  off,  and  the  dogs  are  aiding  with  their  frantic 
barking  till  the  buzzards  reluctantly  retire  for  a 
more  favorable  day. 

Here  comes  a  donkey  hauling  a  cart;  he  is  literally 
covered  with  green  branches,  for  it  is  a  hot  day.  The 
driver  looks  like  an  Arab  of  the  desert,  with  that 


214  Abbe  Pierre 

flowing  white  cloth  of  his  draped  over  his  hat  and 
hanging  down  behind.  From  a  lane,  a  team  of  oxen 
emerge  into  the  road;  the  man  who  drives  them  has 
a  long  pole  with  which  he  guides  them  by  touching 
them  with  its  sharp  point.  Nets  are  over  the  oxen's 
faces  to  keep  the  flies  off,  and  garlands  of  leaves  are 
about  their  great  necks ;  and  on  their  backs  are  spread 
canvas  cloths,  gayly  embroidered  in  purple  and  pink. 
"Name  of  a  finger!"  cries  the  driver  as  his  oxen  shy 
at  my  near  approach. 

Entering  the  road  from  some  barnyard  just  ahead 
is  a  herd  of  slow-moving  cows,  or,  perhaps,  a  flock 
of  ducks,  or  geese.  And  what  wonderful  geese  they 
are!  Stately,  portly,  dignified,  immense  in  size, 
strutting  leisurely  along  the  road  in  the  sunshine, 
like  aristocratic  dowagers  out  for  an  afternoon  walk. 
One  could  almost  imagine  them  lifting  their  lorg 
nettes  haughtily  as  they  pass ! 

But  to  tell  all  the  wonders  of  the  road  would  re 
quire  volumes.  The  tower  of  a  church  peeping  over 
a  rolling  meadow;  vast  expanses  of  valley  and  hill 
from  a  height;  the  cool  shades  of  poplars  as  one 
crosses  a  quiet  stream  in  a  tiny  valley;  a  level  field, 
carpeted  in  green  velvet,  with  the  great,  spreading 
oak  in  the  center;  the  geese,  white  and  gray,  resting 
in  its  gracious  shade;  the  friendly  trees,  acacia  and 
linden  and  walnut  and  alder  and  pine  and  plane  and 
chestnut — the  trees,  some  of  them  gracefully  hung 
with  mistletoe ;  and  the  flowers  by  the  road's  edge  in 
the  deep  grasses,  such  as  the  delicate  blue  chicory 
blossoms,  which  pale  to  white  a  few  hours  after  being 
picked. 


The  Road  215 

Why  is  it  that  sometimes  a  softness  steals  over 
one  so  that  one  cannot  pluck  the  wild  flowers,  sway 
ing  on  their  long  stems  by  the  sunny  road,  any  more 
than  one  could  mutilate  a  child?  How  often  have  I 
stood  before  such  beauty,  perhaps  a  spray  of  the 
golden  blossoms  of  a  weed,  irresolute,  trying  to 
summon  courage  to  sever  it  from  its  stem!  The 
more  I  become  acquainted  with  these  little  inhabi 
tants  of  our  world,  the  more  I  study  into  their  won 
drous  texture,  the  more  I  feel  that  nothing  should  be 
wantonly  destroyed.  The  true  test  of  our  love  of 
nature  is  our  respect  for  her  creations.  One  who 
really  loves  nature  will  be  as  tender  to  a  flower  as 
he  is  to  a  friend.  A  weed  studied  is  to  the  soul  a 
weed  no  longer.  It  becomes  hallowed — a  living 
thing  with  a  right  to  live,  and  plucked  up,  even  when 
necessity  calls,  only  with  regret.  I  have  seen  flowers 
cast  along  the  roadside  to  wither  in  the  dust,  and 
could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  rescue  them  as  help^ 
less  and  forsaken  waifs. 

Perhaps  I  am  getting  to  be  only  a  sentimental 
old  man;  but  the  world  will  be  worth  our  leaving 
when  sentiment  dies. 

So,  then,  I  often  hear  the  call  of  these  Gascon 
roads,  and  sometimes  heed  it,  to  my  soul's  profit. 
For,  as  I  travel  them,  I  think  thoughts  that  reach 
far  out  to  distant  horizons,  to  the  dawns  that  never 
were.  And  if  they  wind  and  wind,  well,  perhaps 
through  their  leisurely  windings  one  shall  learn  this 
blessed  truth,  that  Time  is  not  the  most  valuable 
thing  we  have!  One  shall  pause  at  the  crosses  of 
wood  or  iron  that  are  to  be  found  where  two  roads 


216  Abbe  Pierre 

meet — it  is  proper  that  these  crosses  should  be  there, 
for  they  serve  to  remind  us  that  all  roads  are  but 
tributaries  of  the  long  highway  that  leads  beyond 
the  crest  of  the  farthest  hill  to  the  end  of  all  jour 
neying! 


Chapter  XXVI:  In  Germalnes  Garden 

I  HAVE  always  said  that  one  of  the  most  de 
lightful  spots  in  all  this  Gascony  of  ours  is 
Germaine's  garden. 

Of  course,  it  would  be  difficult  to  prove  this  to 
any  one  who  has  not  been  there;  to  one  who  has  been 
there,  no  proof  is  necessary. 

I  renewed  my  faith  in  Germaine's  garden  to-day, 
for  I  spent  an  hour  in  its  quiet  shades  by  the  long 
pond. 

It  came  about  in  this  way. 

The  longing  for  the  road  got  into  me,  and  I 
walked  all  the  way  out  to  that  poor  family  of  the 
Massats,  which  Dr.  Dousset  spoke  to  me  about  on 
the  street.  They  live  east  of  our  village,  beyond  the 
high  ridge  we  call  the  Bethaut,  where  the  road  de 
scends  to  the  level  of  a  charming  little  valley. 

It  was  just  the  day  for  a  walk — not  too  warm,  the 
sky  flecked  with  clouds,  and  a  breeze  blowing  them 
over  the  dome  of  the  world.  There  was  nothing  to 
keep  me  in  the  village,  unless  Monsieur  Ware  wanted 
a  French  lesson;  and  he  couldn't  come  to  my  garden 
to-day,  he  said,  because  of  an  engagement  he  had. 
So  out  the  road  I  went,  my  steps  keeping  careless 

217 


218  Abbe  Pierre 

rhythm  with  the  harmony  one  finds  in  all  things  on 
a  summer  day  like  this. 

It  was  past  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  when  I 
again  reached  the  summit  of  the  Bethaut  on  the  way 
back.  For  several  minutes  I  stood  there,  contem 
plating  our  village  a  mile  and  a  half  away.  The 
air  was  so  clear  that  I  even  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
corner  of  my  garden-house  through  the  trees — at 
least,  I  thought  I  did. 

Descending  the  winding  road  toward  the  village, 
I  soon  came  to  the  crossroads  called  the  Tonkin — 
there  is  a  story  connected  with  that! 

Several  years  ago,  one  of  the  finest  girls  of  our 
village  had  a  soldier  for  her  sweetheart.  He  was 
suddenly  ordered  to  the  far-away  Tonkin,  in  Indo- 
China.  The  name  of  that  distant  place  came  to  be 
synonymous  with  calamity  to  the  lovers. 

In  the  long  twilights,  they  often  strolled  out  from 
the  village  to  the  crossroads  and  back.  And  to  this 
same  place  so  blessed  in  their  memories,  they  took 
their  last  walk  together. 

Alas !  like  so  many  soldiers  of  our  France,  he 
never  returned.  And  the  crossroads,  which,  in  jest, 
had  been  called  the  Tonkin  by  the  close  friends  of 
the  lovers,  gradually  acquired  the  name  as  a  right; 
until  now  nobody  thinks  of  calling  the  place  any 
thing  else. 

So  human  hearts  have  their  geography,  too  — 
their  crossroads,  their  valleys  of  dreams,  their  cities 
set  on  hills,  each  with  its  own  name. 

When  one  reaches  the  Tonkin,  one  is  nearly  home. 
A  few  steps  further,  the  houses  of  the  village  begin. 


In  Germames  Garden          219 

One  passes  the  white  statue  of  the  Madonna.  Still 
further,  the  little  house  of  old  Marinette  hugging 
the  road.  She  was  in  her  yard,  calling  her  geese: 
"Sail  Sai!  Sail"  (that  is  patois  for  uComeI 
Come!  Come!")  and  "Balen!  Balen!"  ("Valiant! 
Valiant!"),  which  ought  to  bring  them  to  her  surely, 
if  they  are  at  all  susceptible  to  flattery! 

Next  to  Marinette's  house,  Germaine's  garden 
begins.  I  have  already  jotted  down  something  about 
the  great  old  house. 

But  the  garden ! 

From  the  road,  it  presents  an  enchanting  sight. 
Just  on  the  other  side  of  the  sunlit  hedge  that  bor 
ders  the  road  is  the  long,  narrow  pond,  whose  placid 
surface  is  dappled  with  sunshine  sifted  through  the 
trees.  By  the  edges,  the  long  grasses  droop  grace 
fully  down  to  it,  their  tips  touching  the  water.  Just 
the  other  side  of  the  pond  is  a  low  fence  of  slender, 
iron  palings,  tumbled  with  ivy  in  wild  disarray,  and 
flanked  by  rosebushes  that  nestle  close.  (Oh,  the 
roses,  red  and  pink  and  white,  that  sway  along  the 
edge  of  the  pond  in  May  and  early  June  !)  But  now 
it  is  the  sweet-pea  blossoms  reaching  their  sprays 
over  the  pond  to  mirror  themselves,  and  a  row  of 
stalwart  hollyhocks  of  white  and  pink,  which  peer 
out  over  fence  and  pond  and  hedge  to  the  road,  to 
see  what  is  going  on  in  the  world. 

Then,  beyond  the  pond,  the  real  garden  begins. 

It  may  have  been  a  formal  garden  once,  but  Na 
ture  has  improved  that!  As  you  look  at  it  from 
the  road,  you  get  the  effect  of  restful,  shady  places, 
boldly  touched  with  stretches  of  grass  and  patches  of 


220  Abbe  Pierre 

sunshine,  for  one  of  which  you  may  at  first  mistake 
that  vivid  bed  of  yellow  daisies.  There  are  trees, 
trees,  trees,  in  delightful  disorder — tall  pines,  and 
firs,  and  fancy-trimmed  yews,  and  acacias,  and  laur 
els,  and  live  oaks,  not  to  speak  of  the  huge  chestnut 
trees  by  the  long  wall  that  separates  the  garden  from 
the  drive,  and,  close  to  the  pond,  the  great  cypress 
tree  that  dominates  all.  In  some  places,  the  branches 
of  the  trees  interlace  with  one  another.  There  is 
one  tree  in  a  delightful  corner  that  has  become  so 
crowded  that  it  has  bent  itself  away  to  one  side, 
seeking  the  sun. 

It  is  so  restful  in  there  as  you  look  in  from  the 
sunny  road !  You  get  an  impression  of  winding 
paths,  not  too  carefully  trimmed,  strewn  with  pine 
needles  and  cones.  Rich,  green  beds  of  periwinkle 
here  and  there,  and  a  stump  or  two,  overgrown  with 
ivy  and  bridal-wreath.  Through  the  trees  you  get 
a  stray  glimpse  of  the  old-fashioned  well,  the  pail 
resting  on  the  edge;  or,  perhaps,  a  corner  of  the 
house,  or  the  red  roof  of  a  barn;  and  then  the  sunlit 
fields  beyond,  and  still  beyond  these  the  Hills.  And 
mingling  with  what  you  see,  you  detect  the  delicate 
fragrance  of  honeysuckle  and  jasmine  in  the  air. 
And  then  you  begin  to  think  that  the  poetry  of  the 
road  has  been  greatly  over-rated;  indeed,  you  wish 
that  you  were  not  in  the  road  at  all,  but  in  the  gar 
den  there. 

From  the  moment  I  passed  Marinette's  house,  I 
had  heard  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  garden;  and 
now,  looking  across  the  hedge,  I  saw  Germaine,  as 
well  as  her  sister,  the  doctor's  wife,  and  Madame 


In  Germaines  Garden          221 

Lacoste,  seated  on  benches  under  the  trees.  Beyond, 
in  a  grassy,  open  space,  Robert  (the  doctor's  young 
son)  was  jumping  by  means  of  a  pole  over  a  high- 
stretched  rope — and  there,  too,  was  none  other  than 
David  Ware,  joining  in  this  sport  like  the  veriest 
boy !  Now  I  knew  what  that  important  engagement 
of  Monsieur  Ware's  meant!  Watching  it  all,  Dick, 
the  bird-dog,  lay  near  by,  luxuriously  stretched  on 
a  cool  bed  of  periwinkle. 

I  suppose  that  I  must  have  unconsciously  paused 
in  the  road  looking  at  the  pretty  scene  before  me — 
at  any  rate,  before  I  knew  it,  the  doctor's  wife  was 
calling  a  greeting  to  me  and  inviting  me  to  come  in. 
Well,  I  was  glad  to  do  so.  How  often  had  I  sat  in 
that  same  garden  with  Germaine's  father  on  long 
summer  evenings !  There  is  something  besides  trees 
and  flowers  and  grasses  beyond  that  hedge — there 
are  memories,  too ! 

I  had  to  walk  along  the  road  the  length  of  the 
hedge  to  the  driveway  that  separates  the  house  and 
the  garden.  From  the  driveway,  one  enters  the  gar 
den  by  a  path  bordered  with  anemones,  and  then 
through  a  low  gate  in  the  garden  wall,  over  which  is 
a  rustic  archway  covered  with  leafy  vines.  Robert 
hastened  with  a  large  garden  chair  he  had  been  told 
to  fetch  from  under  the  steps  of  the  house.  Mon 
sieur  Ware,  too,  came,  hurriedly  donning  his  coat 
and  arranging  his  tie,  finally  seating  himself  on  the 
grass,  not  far  from  Germaine,  who  was  working  on 
a  square  of  filet. 

As  for  Madame  Lacoste,  she  is  a  frequent  visitor 
here  on  summer  afternoons.  She  it  is  who  has  the 


222  Abbe  Pierre 

garden  that  I  see  from  the  back  window  of  my 
father's  house.  Madame  Lacoste  is  valuable.  She 
knows  all  the  gossip  of  the  village,  and  can  tell  it 
well.  She  is  really  a  wonderful  woman.  Although 
she  is  over  seventy  years  old,  she  does  not  look  a 
day  over  fifty,  hearty  and  wholesome,  and  with  the 
figure  of  a  girl.  She  has  had  thirteen  children,  and 
they  are  all  alive  and  prosperous.  Her  husband  is 
dead — how  regally  they  used  to  live  in  the  great 
chateau  on  the  hill  to  the  east,  before  he  lost  all  he 
had  in  that  unfortunate  speculation  which  loosened 
his  hold  on  life !  Madame  Lacoste  is  the  most  de 
vout  woman  in  our  canton.  She  goes  to  early  mass 
every  morning  of  the  year,  and  is  always  at  ves 
pers;  she  is  to  be  seen  in  all  our  religious  processions 
— on  St.  John's  Eve,  she  was  there — and  every  year 
she  makes  several  pilgrimages  to  Lourdes. 

It  is  fascinating  to  hear — better  still,  to  watch — 
Madame  Lacoste  talk.  What  animation !  What  in 
fectious  laughter!  What  gestures!  She  is  a  born 
actress,  and  to  hear  her  tell  the  latest  bit  of  news  is 
like  going  to  a  play. 

Just  now,  she  has  much  to  say  of  the  approaching 
marriage  of  her  handsome  daughter,  Henriette,  to  a 
soldier  who  has  been  courting  her  for  a  long  time. 
But  it  was  not  of  this  she  spoke  as  I  seated  myself. 
No,  she  was  full  of  a  new  wonder — how  Monsieur 
Ware  had  come  to  her  rescue  with  his  American 
genius  in  putting  together  a  new,  patent,  sheet-iron 
oven  that  had  come  from  Paris  in  so  many  pieces 
that  it  was  simply  impossible  to  tell  which  pieces 
belonged  where.  The  hardware  merchant  had  tried 


In  Germaines  Garden          223 

it;  Lignac,  the  lame  blacksmith,  had  tried  it;  and 
Monsieur  Ware  had  not  only  tried  it,  but  voila!  it 
was  done  within  five  minutes  after  he  had  looked  at 
it! 

When  I  was  through  telling  them  of  my  talk  of 
the  afternoon,  Monsieur  Ware  hastened  to  relate  an 
experience  he  had  in  the  country  a  few  days  ago. 
He  had  encountered  a  half-witted  and  garrulous 
peasant  on  his  rambles,  who  called  him  into  his  yard 
and  insisted  upon  talking  to  him  for  over  an  hour 
in  mingled  French  and  patois,  and  showed  him 
everything  he  had. 

I  then  asked  Monsieur  Ware  if,  in  his  wander 
ings  on  our  roads,  he  had  found  anything  worth 
putting  into  poetry — besides  the  sabots,  which  had 
inspired  him  to  that  lyric  outburst  in  my  garden. 

He  said  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  written 
some  verses  about  this  very  peasant  he  had  just  been 
mentioning. 

I  don't  much  care  to  hear  a  person  read  his  own 
poetry  to  me,  even  though  he  be  a  teacher  of  litera 
ture  as  ingenious  as  Monsieur  Ware — it  is  often 
such  an  effort  to  keep  interested.  But,  of  course,  I 
had  to  ask  him  to  read  his  verses,  if  he  had  them 
with  him.  But  he  modestly  declined  to  do  this,  say 
ing,  however,  that  he  might  do  so  later,  if  I  really 
desired  it. 

All  the  time  we  had  been  sitting  there  conversing, 
I  had  been  hearing  the  most  weird  sounds  imagi 
nable.  They  seemed  to  come  from  a  group  of  trees 
at  the  extreme  side  of  the  garden  bordering  on  old 
Marinette's  chicken  yard.  First,  one  heard  a  run 


224  Abbe  Pierre 

of  mellow,  flutelike  notes,  a  birdlike  melody,  soft 
and  plaintive.  Then  silence.  Then  a  sudden  blast 
of  inharmonies  from  another  instrument  entirely,  as 
if  the  spirit  of  music  were  sorely  wounded  and  in 
intense  agony.  It  was  undoubtedly  a  saxophone, 
every  note  expressing  a  most  painful  and  riotous 
distress.  Then  silence  again.  Then  a  human  voice, 
a  singing  voice,  tore  wide  open  the  peace  of  the  gar 
den — and  then  I  knew  what  it  all  meant.  I  knew  it 
was  Germaine's  brother,  Henri,  torturing  his  voice 
into  an  exaggerated  tremolo  by  vibrating  his  larynx 
rapidly  with  his  hand  and  running  up  and  down  the 
scale  in  a  wild  imitation  of  operatic  passion.  That 
is  an  old  trick  of  Henri's. 

"He  has  made  himself  a  study  over  there  among 
the  trees,"  said  Germaine,  smiling.  uHe  says  he 
wants  to  be  in  a  place  where  he  can  be  quiet  and  un 
disturbed." 

A  little  later,  I  told  Monsieur  Ware  of  a  project 
I  had  in  mind,  namely,  in  a  day  or  two  I  intended 
to  walk  out  to  Marius  Fontan's,  on  account  of  the 
manuscript  I  have  been  wanting  to  see.  I  asked 
Monsieur  Ware  if  he  would  like  to  go. 

uHe,  too,  is  a  poet,"  I  said,  "although  he  hardly 
ever  writes  in  anything  but  patois." 

He  said  that  he  would  like  very  much  to  go,  and 
laughingly  added  that  he  would  wear  his  red  sash 
and  sabots.  He  said  that  when  Marinette  had  seen 
him  in  his  sabots,  she  had  admired  them  immensely. 

I  could  see  that  Monsieur  Ware  made  this  pro 
posal  in  jest;  but  I  noticed  that  Germaine  glanced  at 


In  Germaine  s  Garden          225 

him  with  a  rebuke  in  her  eyes,  and  I  overheard  her 
say, 

"Please  don't  be  ridiculous!" 

I  knew  then  that  Monsieur  Ware  would  not  wear 
his  sabots,  or  his  sash,  either! 

I  did  not  stay  long  after  this.  It  was  getting  to 
ward  sunset.  While  the  women  were  engaged  in 
discussing  a  detail  of  Germaine's  filet  work,  I  tried 
to  imagine  this  garden  as  it  was  when  Jean-Louis 
Sance  was  alive.  From  the  potato  field  beyond  the 
barn  came  the  sound  of  a  hoe.  My  eye  wandered 
over  to  a  corner  of  the  garden  where  the  tall  distaffs 
of  St.  Germaine  flamed  red  against  the  syringa 
bushes — the  distaffs  of  St.  Germaine,  whose  blossoms 
burn  to  yellow  as  they  open,  and  then  finally  die  to  a 
dull  brown  as  their  brief  season  ends.  Near  them 
were  some  long,  rare  grasses  Germaine's  father  had 
planted.  Above  and  beyond,  I  glimpsed  the  gable 
of  a  barn,  under  whose  eaves  were  small  openings 
he  had  made  for  his  pigeons,  in  which  he  took  de 
light. 

Yes,  the  memories  were  here,  just  as  I  said. 
There  were  trees  here  that  Germaine  helped  her 
father  to  plant;  that  myrtle  yonder  her  baby  hands 
held  upright  in  its  hole  while  her  father  packed  the 
dirt  around  it. 

In  the  midst  of  these  reveries  of  mine,  Germaine's 
mother  appeared  with  a  spray  of  fragrant  jasmine, 
which  she  handed  to  Madame  Lacoste. 

"For  you!"  she  said,  her  face  lighted  up  with  a 
look  an  angel  might  envy.  Jasmine  is  her  favorite 
flower. 


226  Abbe  Pierre 

We  cast  long  shadows  upon  the  road  back  of  us 
as  Madame  Lacoste,  David  and  myself — accom 
panied  a  short  distance  by  Germaine  and  her  sister 
— made  our  way  toward  the  village. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  Street  of  the  Church,  we 
said,  "Sonsoirf"  and  parted. 


Chapter  XXVII:  Monsieur  Ware  Turns 
Poet 

THESE  are  the  verses  Monsieur  Ware  referred 
to  in  Germaine's  garden.     He  brought  them 
to  me  to-day,  when  he  came  for  his  French 
lesson.     He  has  entitled  them: 

THE  FUNNY  PEASANT  MAN 

Walking  down  a  sunny  road, 

In  Gascony,  in  Gas  cony, 
I  spied  a  little  peasant  man, 
Old,  and  toothless  as  a  toad, 

A  funny  man  to  see! 

"Trop  chaud!"  he  called,  ((Come  out  of  the 
road 

Into  the  shade  with  me!" 

I  stepped  Into  his  little  yard, 

Where  cooling  shadows  lay; 
"Une  chaise  pour  vous!"     "Oh,  no!"  I  said, 
"The  ground  is  not  so  very  hard, 

I'll  rest  here,  If  I  may.}> 
So,  there  beside  me,  In  his  yard, 

We  talked  an  hour  away. 
227 


228  Abbe  Pierre 

"I  once  was  over  in  Spain!"  he  said, 
And  waved  his  horny  hand; 

'And  then  he  burst  into  patois, 

And  laughed,  and  shook  his  ancient  head, 
And  often  made  demand, 

"Vous  comprenez?"     "Un  peu,"  I  said — 
'Twas  hard  to  understand. 

Then,  all  at  once,  "Aliens  I"  he  cried, 
And  toward  the  barn  he  went; 

'Twas  built  of  yellow,  crumbling  stone. 

'The  battered  door  was  open  wide, 
The  roof  was  torn  and  rent; 

"Alors,  Monsieur,  entrez  1"  he  cried; 
I  followed,  quite  content. 

My  legs,  they  brushed  a  fat  canard; 

Some  pans  hung  overhead; 
There  was  a  wine-press  by  the  wall, 
Some  barrels,  and  an  earthen  jar, 

And  straw  that  made  a  bed; 
He  turned  to  this — "Pour  les  canards!" 

"That's  French  for  ducks,"  I  said. 

'He  seized  my  coat,  "A  la  cuisine!" 
And  through  a  narrow  door, 

He  led  me,  talking  eagerly, 

With  laughter  and  with  strange  demean, 
Across  the  stony  floor; 

I  knew  the  English  for  "cuisine," 
So  hastened  all  the  more. 

Glasses  he  fetched  with  many  a  word, 

And  straightway  filled  up  mine; 
'And,  as  I  drank,  he  rattled  on, 


Monsieur  Ware  Turns  Poet     229 

In  the  quaintest  patois  ever  heard, 

With  many  an  eager  sign; 
I  could  not  understand  a  word — 

But  I  never  tasted  better  wine! 

The  strange  thing  about  it  all  is  that  I  know  ex 
actly  who  Monsieur  Ware  means  by  his  "funny  peas 
ant  man."  It  is  old  Jules  Michaud,  who,  as  every 
body  knows,  has  been  half  crazed  ever  since  the  loss 
of  his  wife  and  only  son  over  a  year  ago.  He  lives 
by  himself,  and  talks  nonsense  to  every  one  that 
comes  out  the  road. 


Chapter  XXVIII :  I  Call  for  David 

AT  last  I  have  been  to  see  Marius  Fontan.  I 
fully  intended  to  go  within  a  day  or  two  after 
I  saw  David  Ware  in  Germaine's  garden  and 
suggested  to  him  that  he  accompany  me.  But  a  whole 
week  went  by. 

That  is  the  way  with  me,  although  I  am  not  quite 
so  bad  as  the  Abbe  Rivoire.  He  has  a  little  book  in 
which  he  carefully  puts  down  the  things  he  ought  to 
do.  Then,  after  they  are  once  put  down  in  the  book, 
he  straightway  forgets  them.  It  is  as  if  putting  them 
down  in  the  book  disposed  of  the  whole  matter. 

According  to  an  arrangement  with  David  (I  find 
myself  frequently  calling  Monsieur  Ware  by  his  first 
name  lately),  I  was  to  stop  for  him  at  the  Chateau 
de  Lasalle,  which  is  on  the  road  we  had  to  take.  So, 
after  mass,  and  then  breakfast,  I  started  out,  first 
providing  myself  with  a  package  of  tobacco,  which 
I  knew  well  enough  Marius  would  be  glad  to  have. 

It  was  a  wonderful  morning,  cloudless,  and  with 
the  sort  of  air  that  makes  one  feel  younger  and 
ready  for  vast  horizons.  I  even  began  to  regret  that 
Marius  lived  only  two  miles  away. 

As  one  leaves  the  village,  the  road  descends  a 
230 


I  Call  for  David  231 

little.  One  passes  the  convent  school,  and  then  the 
ox-market  with  its  trees,  where  the  fire  was  on  St. 
John's  Eve.  Then  the  little  house  of  Marie,  the 
dressmaker — she  was  just  opening  her  shutters  up 
stairs;  and  after  that,  one  can  really  feel  that  he  has 
left  the  village  behind  him.  Then  a  gentle  slope 
on  the  left  covered  with  vineyards,  and,  farther  on, 
at  the  top  of  the  slope,  a  park  of  great  trees,  through 
whose  dark  foliage  one  gets  fugitive  glimpses  of  the 
round,  white  towers,  ivy-grown,  of  the  ancient  Cha 
teau  de  Lasalle. 

When  I  got  as  far  as  the  long  avenue  of  plane 
trees  that  leads  up  to  the  chateau,  I  heard  a  merry 
shout,  and  saw  David  running  down  toward  me  with 
no  thought  that  this  same  sedate  avenue  has  been 
more  than  once  dignified  by  the  august  retinues  of 
princes.  I  would  no  more  think  of  running  down 
that  stately  avenue  than  of  any  other  misdemeanor, 
— but  then,  of  course,  it  never  occurs  to  me  to  run, 
anyway ! 

"Just  finished  breakfast.  Wait  a  moment,  Mon 
sieur  1'Abbe ! — I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  fill  my  pipe. 
The  main  use  of  breakfast  is  to  smoke  afterwards!" 

And  then,  when  he  had  thrust  a  stem  of  broom 
through  the  pipe  to  clear  it,  and  was  smoking  con 
tentedly,  we  walked  on. 

"Tell  me  about  this  Marius  Fontan,  Monsieur 
1'Abbe." 

Now,  I  did  not  want  to  say  too  much  about  Ma 
rius  yet,  as  I  wished  David  to  see  him  first  and  judge 
him  for  himself.  So  I  merely  told  him  that  he  was 
an  old  peasant  of  about  seventy-five;  that  his  wife 


232  Abbe  Pierre 

had  died  fifteen  years  before;  that  he  had  never 
had  any  children;  and  that  he  now  lived  alone  in 
considerable  poverty. 

"But  you  said  he  was  a  poet." 

"Not  only  that,"  I  answered.  "He  also  writes 
stories  about  the  old  days  in  Gascony — he  knows  all 
the  ancient  legends  of  this  region  better  than  any 
one  else.  These  stories  he  writes  in  French.  But 
his  poems  are  in  patois.  You  will  see." 

And  then  I  learned  the  abyss  of  my  young  friend's 
ignorance.  He  had  no  idea  what  patois — our  Gas 
con  patois — is!  He  actually  thought  that  it  was 
some  sort  of  corruption  of  the  French  tongue, 
spoken  by  peasants  in  the  country,  who  knew  no 
better. 

That  made  me  a  little  provoked.  For  I  am  proud 
of  our  Gascon  language,  which  is  no  corruption  of 
French  at  all,  but  is  a  language  with  its  own  rights, 
as  old  as  French.  It  makes  me  sad,  too,  when  I 
think  of  how,  with  the  new  generation  being  taught 
French  in  the  schools,  it  is  fast  passing  away.  To 
be  sure,  some  of  the  older  peasants  still  speak  it. 
Old  Marinette  talks  nothing  but  Gascon  patois;  and 
Marius  is  one  of  the  remaining  few  who  can  speak 
it  purely. 

"It  is  the  most  beautiful  language  fn  the  world," 
I  added.  "It  is  more  picturesque  than  French  to  my 
ear.  It  does  not  neglect  so  many  vowels  and  con 
sonants.  Some  say  it  is  harsher;  but  to  me  its  sound 
is  like  a  swift  brook  running  over  many  stones." 

And  now,  at  length  we  came  to  a  narrow,  shady 
road  leading  off  to  the  left,  up  a  hill.  Grass-grown 


/  Call  for  David  233 

the  road  was,  edged  with  blackberry  bushes,  the 
fluffy  white  of  uold  man's  beard"  showing  in  the 
hedges.  And  then,  when  we  had  descended  the  hill 
on  the  other  side,  long  rows  of  slender  alder  trees 
grew  in  the  ditches.  All  in  all,  it  was  a  road  such 
as  one  would  choose  to  lead  him  to  a  poet's  house. 

Then  we  turned  up  a  narrower  lane,  bordered  by 
fields  of  daisies.  And  then  another  road  came  into 
view,  rough  and  unkept;  and  there  beside  it,  in  its 
yard  of  barren  clay,  was  a  square  house,  its  ancient 
plaster  pealed  off  in  places,  showing  the  rough  stone 
and  clay  and  black  timbers  beneath. 

It  faced  toward  the  east,  as  a  poet's  house  should. 
The  morning  sun  was  shining  on  it,  trying  in  vain 
to  caress  its  poverty  into  something  beautiful! 


Chapter  XXIX:  A  Singer  of  Gascony 

AS  David  and  I  crossed  the  yard  and  came  close 
to  the  front  of  Marius  Fontan's  house,  a  most 
striking  picture  met  our  view,  framed  in  the 
open  window.  For  square  behind  it  was  Marius, 
seated  at  a  small  table,  writing.  The  sun  shone  full 
upon  him;  and,  as  he  heard  us  and  rose,  and  leaned 
forward  to  see  who  it  was,  the  surprising  apparition 
he  made  there  affected  the  imagination  strangely. 

A  tall,  bent  form,  loosely  hung  with  frayed 
clothes;  a  face  covered  with  a  close-cropped,  gray 
beard;  and  dim,  blue  eyes,  looking  out  from  under 
the  most  ridiculous  hat  imaginable !  Perhaps  it  was 
the  hat  that  held  one's  attention  most  of  all — a  wide- 
brimmed  hat  of  straw,  all  covered  over  with  cloth, 
once  white,  but  now  soiled  and  tattered  at  the  edges, 
with  a  narrow  band  of  rusted  black  around  the  low 
crown — the  sort  of  hat  the  children  wear  in  summer 
time.  I  found  out  later  it  was  a  hat  his  little  niece 
had  thrown  away. 

When  the  tall  form  of  Marius  had  hastily  trans 
ferred  itself  to  the  open  door,  it  was  plain  how 
happy  he  was  to  see  me !  He  wrung  my  hand  and 
exclaimed,  "My  good  friend!  My  good  friend!" 

234 


A  Singer  of  Gascony          235 

his  face  lit  up  with  his  delight  at  my  unexpected  com 
ing.  Then  David,  who  had  been  lingering  a  little 
behind,  came  up  and  I  introduced  him,  and  we  went 
into  the  room  to  the  right  of  the  narrow  hall,  in 
whose  window  we  had  surprised  Marius. 

It  was  pitiful,  that  room,  or  so  it  seemed  to  me. 
In  a  corner  was  a  bed,  unmade  and  tumbled,  hidden 
partly  by  some  cheap  draperies  covered  with  dingy, 
flowered  figures.  On  the  worn  floor  of  red  stone, 
loose  bundles  of  fagots  were  lying  in  a  disorderly 
way  in  front  of  the  wide  fireplace,  a  blackened  coffee 
percolator  standing  in  the  ashes.  Above,  the  large 
beams  of  the  ceiling  were  smoked  and  dirty.  On 
the  wall,  besides  a  few  pans,  were  hung  two  or  three 
cheap  engravings — one,  Our  Savior  on  the  cross, 
over  the  fireplace;  another,  a  fanciful  picture  of  the 
Resurrection  above  a  rickety  chest  of  drawers,  which 
served  also  as  a  sort  of  buffet,  for  on  it  were  a  few 
onions  and  apples,  a  fragment  of  bread,  and  some 
bottles,  one  partly  filled  with  red  wine.  At  the  win 
dow,  where  stood  the  writing  table,  were  some  yel 
low  curtains  drawn  to  one  side,  stained  and 
wrinkled. 

There  were  two  chairs  in  the  room — one  that 
Marius  had  been  using  at  his  table  by  the  window, 
and  another  heaped  with  clothes,  which  he  hastened 
to  cast  into  a  corner.  These  two  chairs  he  offered 
us,  while  he  excused  himself  with  many  apologies 
to  fetch  another  from  upstairs. 

It  was  quite  clear  that  Marius  was  not  accus 
tomed  to  having  visitors !  I  could  not  help  thinking 
what  a  lonely  life  his  must  be,  and  remembered,  with 


236  Abbe  Pierre 

a  pang  of  remorse,  how  I  had  postponed  coming  to 
see  him. 

While  Marius  was  gone  after  that  other  chair, 
David  could  not  resist  glancing  at  the  table  where 
he  had  been  writing.  The  ink-bottle  was  tilted  up, 
as  though  the  ink  were  about  gone.  Several  pages 
of  closely  written  manuscript  lay  there,  very  finely 
done  in  a  small  hand,  surprisingly  neat  and  regular, 
and  altogether  beautiful.  Indeed,  that  manuscript 
was  the  only  beautiful  thing  in  the  room — perhaps, 
too,  I  thought,  it  represented  the  only  beautiful  thing 
in  Marius'  life. 

"He  is  copying  all  his  best  poems  and  stories  in 
order  that  I  may  see  if  there  is  not  a  way  to  publish 
them,"  I  told  David.  "But  he  actually  had  no  writ 
ing  paper  for  a  long  time,  until  one  day  I  heard 
of  it." 

"Have  you  known  him  long,  Monsieur  TAbbe?" 

"I  have  known  him  always,"  I  replied.  "When 
I  am  here,  he  depends  upon  me  as  upon  no  one  else. 
He  is  even  dedicating  his  writings  to  me — 'To  my 
excellent  friend,  the  Abbe  Pierre  Clement.'  v 

We  had  heard  Marius  rummaging  about  over 
head,  and  now  the  clattering  of  his  wooden  shoes 
came  from  the  stairs,  and  he  entered  with  another 
chair. 

When  he  was  seated,  I  ventured  to  say  that  Mon 
sieur  Ware  was  much  interested  in  his  poetry. 

"But  can  he  understand  patois?"  Marius  eagerly 
asked,  scrutinizing  David  with  new  interest. 

Of  course,  I  had  to  tell  him  that  David  hardly 
understood  even  French,  except  to  read  it.  But  in 


A  Singer  of  Gascony          237 

spite  of  this,  Marius  began  to  explain  to  the  young 
American  about  the  Gascon  language  and  why  he 
wrote  in  it — he  and  others — so  that  it  should  not 
die. 

"Only,"  he  added  sadly,  uthe  peasants  who  speak 
patois  cannot  read  it.  If  they  read  at  all,  it  is  apt 
to  be  French,  for  you  see  all  the  books  and  news 
papers  are  written  in  French.  So  alas,  we  who  write 
in  patois  are  doomed  to  write  only  for  scholars !" 

While  Marius  was  talking  in  this  way  to  David,  I 
was  studying  the  picture  he  made  as  he  sat  there 
with  his  back  to  the  door  of  the  hallway,  slightly 
ajar.  He  had  taken  off  that  ridiculous  hat  when  we 
entered.  I  wished  that  I  were  an  artist  so  that  I 
might  put  on  canvas  that  finely  molded  head,  the 
hair  cut  very  close,  and  darker  than  the  short,  white 
beard;  the  intellectual  forehead,  the  strong  nose,  the 
high  cheek-bones,  the  dim  and  filmed  eyes  of  blue, 
the  large,  well-shaped  ears,  the  loose-drawn  skin  of 
the  throat,  the  old  soiled  shirt,  collarless  and  open 
at  the  front,  the  black  linen  vest,  the  short,  faded 
smock  of  gray,  the  shapeless  trousers,  pathetically 
ripped  up  one  side,  and  the  bare  feet  in  huge  sabots. 
One's  eyes  kept  traveling  back  to  that  face — the 
face  of  a  man  of  native  refinement;  the  face  of  a 
scholar  and  a  dreamer — it  might  be  the  face  of  a 
professor  at  the  Sorbonne,  but  for  his  shabbiness  I 

Yes,  I  wished  I  were  a  painter! 

But  Marius  broke  in  upon  my  musings  by  asking 
us  if  we  would  not  have  a  glass  of  wine  after  our 
long  walk.  He  asked  it  with  as  fine  a  courtesy  as  one 
could  show  who  had  a  well-stocked  cellar.  And  there 


238  Abbe  Pierre 

was  Marius,  with  only  yonder  poor  remnant  of  a 
bottle  left,  I  was  sure.  Of  course,  I  refused  as  best 
I  could,  and  then  mentioned  something  that  had 
been  in  my  mind  ever  since  I  had  thought  to  ask 
David  Ware  to  come  with  me. 

I  wanted  Marius  to  sing  us  one  of  the  ancient 
folk-songs  of  Gascony — the  songs  that  only  the  older 
peasants  know  how  to  sing  in  patois — the  songs  that 
are  dying  out  and  soon  will  be  heard  no  more. 

"Ah,"  said  Marius,  uthe  ones  I  know  are  always 
sung  in  the  fields,  not  indoors  like  this. — It  is  some 
time  since  I  have  sung,  Monsieur  TAbbe." 

I  saw  that  Marius  was  a  little  reluctant,  perhaps 
on  account  of  the  presence  of  my  young  friend.  But 
after  some  persuasion  he  consented,  especially  when 
I  told  him  that  Monsieur  Ware  had  never  heard  a 
patois  song,  and  had  long  desired  to  hear  what  one 
was  like. 

And  then,  after  a  moment's  silence,  Marius  be 
gan.  It  was  then  that  I  sensed  the  pathos  of  it  all, 
— Marius,  old  and  poor,  singing — actually  singing — 
here  in  this  squalid  room.  One  felt  tears.  After 
wards,  David  told  me  that  it  was  something  he  would 
never  forget  to  his  dying  day — that  strange  picture 
of  Marius,  singing  the  song  of  the  reapers.  After 
the  first  few  notes,  it  was  plain  he  had  forgotten  his 
surroundings  and  lived  only  in  the  song.  His  voice 
rose  strong  and  sonorous,  though  trembling  at  times 
because  of  his  age,  and  his  face  became  transfigured 
with  the  rapt,  far-away  look  of  one  who  sees  the 
happy  things  of  long  ago.  Dramatic  gestures  he 
made,  too,  that  brought  to  the  imagination  the  fields 


A  Singer  of  Gascon?          239 

of  waving  grain  and  the  reapers  of  whom  he  sang; 
and  sometimes  his  distant  look  vanished,  and  he 
turned  his  eyes  to  me,  his  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile 
that  brought  back  the  Marius  Fontan  that  once 
looked  out  on  life  as  a  glad  adventure,  before  the 
pitiless  years  had  mocked  him,  and  bent  his  tall  form, 
and  touched  his  eyes  to  dimness. 

At  the  long-sustained  minor  that  ended  the  first 
stanza,  I  noticed  that  Marius'  lips  quivered  a  little. 
Like  most  of  our  patois  songs,  the  effect  was  one  of 
a  haunting  sadness,  although  I  do  not  think  that  the 
words  themselves  were  particularly  sad: 

There  are  nine  wagons  of  fine  wheat  in  yonder  plain; 

The  heads  are  golden,  and  the  stalks  are  silvery. 

I  know  'very  well  who  it  is  that  is  aweary! 

It  is  Jennie — yes,  and  everybody  else! 

Go  down,  beautiful  sun,  toward  thy  resting! 

Go,  beautiful  sun,  go! 

Speedily  go,  as  I  bid  you! 

Suddenly,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  second  stanza, 
Marius'  voice  faltered  and  stopped,  the  sunlight  died 
out  in  his  face,  and  there  was  silence,  and  we  three 
were  sitting  again  in  the  midst  of  the  dirty  floor  of 
a  poverty-stricken  room,  and  everything  was  com 
mon — for  that  dream  of  song  that  had  changed  all 
and  made  us  forget  was  shattered. 

"My  throat — Monsieur  1'Abbe."  Then,  turning 
to  David,  "Pardon,  Monsieur,  I  cannot  sing  any 
more,  as  you  can  see — I  forgot;  I  cannot  sing  any 


more." 


I  wanted  to  get  Marius'  thoughts  away  from  sad 


240  Abbe  Pierre 

things,  and  I  felt  a  little  to  blame,  too,  for  insisting 
that  he  should  sing;  so  I  changed  the  subject  by  ask 
ing  him  to  tell  Monsieur  Ware  about  some  of  the 
old  legends  of  this  part  of  Gascony. 

It  was  then  that  he  narrated  what  he  knew  about 
the  last  wolves  of  the  Forest  of  Aignan — an  absorb 
ing  tale,  which  even  I  had  never  heard,  and  which  I 
strongly  suspected  was  largely  made  up  in  Marius' 
imagination.  This  story  served  to  take  us  out  of 
ourselves,  and  so  put  us  all  in  a  happier  mood. 

When  at  last  we  rose  to  go,  David  noticed  a  large 
frame  on  the  wall  in  which  were  medals  Marius  had 
received  from  time  to  time  for  his  patois  poetry  and 
prose.  Actually,  one  of  them  was  from  the  famous 
and  venerable  Academy  of  Floral  Games  at  Tou 
louse  !  Others  were  from  societies  modeled  on  this, 
to  encourage  writings  in  the  Gascon  language.  The 
frame  was  upside  down  on  the  wall — Marius  is  so 
near-sighted  he  would  never  notice — and  I  had  to 
right  it  so  that  David  could  examine  these  tributes 
the  world  had  sent  this  singer  of  Gascony. 

Oh,  the  hard,  hard  reality  of  it!  This  singer  in 
rags  and  poverty,  and  the  world  brings  not  food  or 
clothing  in  his  need,  but  mocks  him  with  medals ! 

I  said  something  like  this  to  Marius;  but  he  only 
smiled  and  said  that  I  need  not  worry  about  him  at 
all. 

"I  have  enough.  A  half  loaf  of  bread  is  left  me 
every  week.  You  see,  I  am  on  the  list  of  destitutes. 
Besides,  I  do  not  eat  much,  Monsieur  1'Abbe." 

But  when  I  gave  him  the  package  of  tobacco  I  had 
brought,  his  delight  was  good  to  see. 


A  Singer  of  Gas  cony          241 

"It  comes  just  at  the  right  time,  Monsieur  TAbbe ! 
My  store  was  almost  gone." 

I  had  seen  a  few  grains  spread  upon  a  newspaper 
on  the  chest  of  drawers,  and  had  guessed  as  much. 

Marius  went  with  us  out  into  the  yard,  past  a 
lone  tamarind  tree  close  to  the  path,  and  then 
through  the  gate,  accompanying  us  a  few  steps  along 
the  road.  In  parting  with  us,  David  said  he  im 
pressed  him  as  having  the  indescribable  courtliness 
of  an  old-fashioned  gentleman.  For,  as  he  men 
tioned  later,  he  felt,  in  spite  of  Marius'  rags,  a  cul 
ture  unmistakable  and  far  above  his  station.  I  could 
see  that  Marius  suddenly  became  conscious  of  his 
disreputable-looking  smock  and  passed  his  hand  over 
its  front  as  though  to  smooth  it  and  make  it  more 
presentable.  We  finally  left  him  standing  there  in 
the  road,  with  that  wide-brimmed,  tattered  hat  on 
his  head — Marius  Fontan,  Officer  of  the  Academy, 
Felibre,  Laureate  of  many  learned  societies ! 

"What  is  more  appropriate,  after  all,"  murmured 
David,  as  we  turned  into  the  lane — "the  old  poet, 
his  heart  forever  young,  crowned  with  the  hat  of  a 
child!" 


Chapter  XXX:  The  Last  Wolves  of 
Aignan 

THE  story  that  Marius  Fontain  told  us  about 
the  last  wolves  of  the  Forest  of  Aignan — I  do 
not  want  to  forget  it;  besides,  I  wish  the  Abbe 
Rivoire  to  have  it;  so,  here  I  shall  put  it  down,  in 
Marius'  own  words,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember 
them: 

On  the  twenty- fourth  of  December,  1825,  when 
the  noonday  meal  was  over,  the  mistress  of  the 
Chateau  de  Gaure  said  to  her  servants, 

"Listen  to  me.  This  eve  you  must  fetch  a  Christ 
mas  log  as  big  as  you  can  find;  for,  according  to  cus 
tom,  it  must  burn  all  the  night  long.  At  sundown  I 
shall  light  the  fire;  then,  to-morrow,  at  sunrise,  we 
shall  gather  from  the  hearth  the  embers  that  remain. 
We  shall  first  let  them  go  out,  and  then  place  some 
of  them  on  the  roof  of  the  chateau  and  the  barns, 
for,  as  you  well  know,  these  embers  will  serve  to 
guard  us  from  the  fires  of  earth  and  of  heaven.  We 
shall  spread  the  rest  of  the  embers  in  the  fields  to 
protect  the  harvest  from  lightning,  hail,  and  storm. 
Do  not  forget  to  put  under  the  log  a  good  lot  of 
fagots  as  well  as  larger  branches.  This  done,  you 
will  clean  with  care  the  stables  of  the  horses  and  the 
cattle.  And  do  not  fail  to  make  for  them  good  lit 
ters  of  fresh  straw,  for  this  is  Christmas  eve,  and 

242 


The  Last  Wolves  of  Aignan    243 

everybody  is  aware  that,  while  the  mass  will  be 
going  on,  at  the  very  moment  of  the  consecration  of 
the  Host,  the  animals  kneel  down  to  adore  the  infant 
Jesus,  and  speak  between  themselves.  And  if  they 
did  not  have  a  good  litter,  they  might  hurt  their 
knees." 

When  evening  came,  the  mistress  of  the  chateau 
lit  the  fire,  just  as  she  said  she  would;  and,  after  sup 
per,  the  servants  were  allowed  to  lie  down  for  awhile 
until  the  time  to  go  to  mass.  As  soon  as  they  had 
retired,  the  mistress  of  Gaure  sat  herself  down  at  one 
side  of  the  huge  fireplace,  her  feet  on  the  bar  of  one 
of  the  great  andirons;  and,  at  the  other  side,  there 
kept  her  company  a  fair  young  girl,  eighteen  years 
old,  Jeanne  Garbay  by  name. 

A  word  about  these  two  women. 

The  mistress  of  the  chateau,  Antoinette  de  Me- 
drano,  was  born  in  Spain.  Her  brother,  Duke  Ra 
mon  de  Medrano,  had  been  lord  of  Mauser,  Gaure 
and  other  places;  this  very  chateau  had  been  his. 
But  the  Revolution  came,  and  he  was  guillotined.  In 
order  that  she  herself  might  not  share  the  fate  of  her 
brother,  she  had  fled  to  Spain,  disguised  as  a  goat 
herd,  where  she  found  refuge  with  her  other  brother, 
who  was  a  Bishop.  After  the  Restoration,  she  had 
returned  to  France  to  claim  the  estates  inherited  from 
her  ill-fated  brother,  the  Duke.  She  had  settled  in 
the  Chateau  de  Gaure  and  had  taken  into  her  ser 
vice  as  a  shepherdess  a  little  girl  twelve  years  old. 
Later  on,  she  kept  her  as  a  servant,  and  finally  grew 
to  love  her  as  if  she  had  been  her  own  daughter. 
She  it  was — Jeanne  Garbay — who  sat  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fireplace  this  Christmas  eve. 

Now,  Antoinette  de  Medrano  was  about  fifty 
years  old,  tall,  thin,  and  bony.  She  had  the  typical 


244  Abbe  Pierre 

Spanish  features  and  complexion.  Very  pious  and  a 
fervent  Christian,  she  was  to  be  seen  at  mass  every 
Sunday,  went  to  confession,  and  took  communion  on 
all  the  holy  days  of  the  year.  She  was  very  chari 
table,  too,  and  visited  the  sick,  and  helped  the  poor 
and  needy. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  she  was  not  liked 
in  the  neighborhood.  To  tell  the  truth,  she  was 
dreaded.  The  superstitious  neighbors  called  her  a 
sorceress  and  said  that  she  had  been  known  to  ride 
astride  a  broomstick;  that  she  had  learned  from  her 
brother,  the  Spanish  Bishop,  the  redoubtable  secrets 
of  necromancy;  also  that  she  was  endowed  with  the 
evil  eye,  and  knew  how  to  weave  spells.  Not  for 
anything  in  the  world  would  the  farmers'  wives  in 
the  neighborhood  let  her  count  their  broods  of  chick 
ens,  or  turkeys,  or  goslings;  for  if  she  succeeded  in 
counting  them,  they  would  die.  When  they  met  her 
on  the  road,  they  spoke  to  her  politely  enough;  but 
after  they  had  passed  her,  they  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  saying, 

"May  St.  Simon  sink  her!" 

"May  the  devil  blow  on  her  back!" 

The  fire  was  crackling  on  the  hearth  and  the 
Christmas  log  was  sending  out  a  thousand  sparks — 
the  sign  of  severe  cold  weather.  In  a  large  earthen 
ware  pot,  covered  with  a  piece  of  oiled  paper  kept 
in  place  by  a  flat  tile,  bubbled  and  sang  the  customary 
Christmas  daube.  Soon  Antoinette  said, 

"Go  and  get  ready,  Jeanne;  we  must  start  for 


mass." 


Within  a  few  minutes,  Jeanne  was  ready.  Her 
mistress  handed  her  some  matches  and  two  long, 
resin  torches.  Then  she  wrapped  herself  up  in  a 
wide  cape  of  black  merino,  adjusted  the  hood  over 


The  Last  Wolves  of  Aignan    245 

her  head,  put  under  her  arm  a  fine  linen  napkin,  and 
together  they  left  the  chateau. 

Antoinette  double-locked  the  great  chateau  door 
and  hid  the  key  under  a  tile  at  the  base  of  the  wall 
nearby.  The  north  wind  was  blowing  sharp  and 
biting,  the  ground  was  frozen,  and  threatening  clouds 
were  massing  on  the  horizon  toward  the  north. 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,"  said  Antoinette,  "we  shall 
have  a  snowstorm." 

To  reach  the  village  of  Aignan  from  the  Chateau 
de  Gaure  it  was  necessary  to  go  through  the  forest 
for  the  distance  of  about  two  kilometers,  along  a 
wide  path,  called  the  path  of  Gaure.  Arrived  at 
the  edge  of  the  forest,  Jeanne  lighted  a  torch  and 
the  two  women  plunged  into  the  woods.  The  wolves 
were  howling  in  all  directions;  the  crows,  the  jays, 
and  the  magpies,  frightened  from  the  trees  by  the 
light,  flew  away  with  confused  cries;  and  with  the 
beating  of  their  wings  they  made  fall  a  shower  of 
icicles,  which  were  hanging  from  the  slender  branches 
like  stalactites  of  silver. 

They  arrived  at  the  village  of  Aignan  at  the  mo 
ment  when  the  bell,  with  its  three  strokes,  announced 
that  the  mass  was  about  to  begin.  Antoinette  en 
tered  a  baker's  shop,  where  she  bought  a  long  loaf 
of  white  bread,  to  be  blessed  according  to  the  ancient 
religious  custom;  this  she  wrapped  up  in  the  napkin. 
Then  they  entered  the  church,  which  was  lighted  up 
with  more  than  a  thousand  tapers.  There  were  can 
dles  burning  on  the  altar  and  in  the  great  chandelier 
hanging  in  the  middle  of  the  nave.  First  they  went 
to  kneel  down  before  the  altar  of  the  Holy  Virgin, 
where  was  represented  the  manger  of  the  infant 
Jesus,  and  then,  having  said  a  prayer,  they  went  and 
knelt  at  their  usual  place  in  the  church. 


246  Abbe  Pierre 

Jeanne  took  the  loaf  of  bread  to  the  communion 
table  to  have  it  blessed,  and  the  mass  began. 

Young  girls  and  boys  sang  canticles  in  the  French 
and  Gascon  languages,  including  the  canticle  of  The 
Angels  and  the  Shepherds,  composed  by  the  good 
Abbe  Daudigeon,  priest  of  Lembeye.  Then,  after 
the  mass  was  finished,  Jeanne  secured  the  loaf  from 
the  communion  table,  and  they  left  the  church. 

By  this  time,  the  snow  was  whirling  through  the 
air  in  big  flakes.  The  village,  as  well  as  all  the  coun 
try  round,  was  covered  with  a  thick  layer  of  snow  as 
the  women  took  the  road  to  the  forest. 

When  they  came  to  the  edge  of  the  forest,  Jeanne 
relighted  the  torch;  a  few  minutes  later,  she  sud 
denly  let  it  fall,  uttering  a  cry. 

"What  are  you  doing,  unhappy  girl?"  said  An 
toinette.  "If  your  torch  goes  out,  we  shall  be  de 
voured  by  the  wolves;  the  light  is  our  safeguard — 
the  flame  frightens  them  away." 

"But,  Madame,"  replied  Jeanne,  "some  burning 
drops  of  the  melting  resin  fell  on  my  hand." 

"Hold  the  torch  tilted  a  little  forward,  then;  in 
that  way,  the  drops  won't  fall  on  your  hand." 

Jeanne  relit  the  torch.  A  few  minutes  later,  when 
they  had  just  crossed  the  path  running  from  the 
Spring  of  Pichecrabe  to  Lespes,  they  heard  plaintive 
wailings  like  those  of  a  new-born  baby.  They 
stopped  in  great  surprise. 

"Do  you  hear  those  wailings,  Jeanne?  Where  do 
they  come  from?" 

"I  believe,  Madame,  that  they  come  from  that 
juniper  bush  yonder." 

"Give  me  the  torch;  let  us  see." 

Antoinette  lifted  the  lower  branches  of  the  juni 
per,  and  there  she  saw  a  baby  wolf,  which  was  trying 


The  Last  Wolves  of  Aignan    247 

to  get  up  and  run  away;  but  his  legs,  benumbed  by 
the  cold,  refused  to  support  him,  so  that  he  fell  down 
again. 

Antoinette  gave  the  torch  back  to  Jeanne,  gathered 
up  the  corners  of  her  apron  and  tucked  them  in  her 
belt,  then  took  the  little  wolf  and  placed  him  in  it. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  chateau,  they  found  the 
log  still  burning,  its  uncertain  light  making  fantastic 
shadows  in  the  vast  kitchen.  Antoinette  put  the  wolf 
in  a  basket  and  wrapped  him  up  in  a  warm  woolen 
blanket.  Then  she  placed  on  the  fire  a  dish  of  milk. 
When  it  was  tepid,  she  put  a  few  spoonfuls  in  the 
mouth  of  the  wolf,  who  eagerly  licked  his  lips.  Then 
she  dipped  his  nose  in  the  milk  and  the  little  animal 
greedily  lapped  up  the  contents  of  the  dish.  After 
that,  he  sat  up  on  his  haunches  before  the  fire  and 
warmed  his  chest  and  nose. 

Antoinette  divided  the  blessed  bread  in  halves,  and 
then  cut  one  of  the  halves  into  small  pieces.  She 
gave  one  piece  to  Jeanne  and  took  one  for  herself, 
and  they  ate  it,  after  having  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  This  done,  they  filled  two  plates  with  daube, 
for  the  customary  Christmas  rebellion,  and  went  to 
bed. 

The  next  day,  Antoinette  gave  a  piece  of  the 
blessed  bread  to  each  of  the  servants,  who  ate  it, 
after  having  made  the  sign  of  the  cross;  then  she 
took  the  embers  that  remained  of  the  log  and  went 
to  spread  them  about,  just  as  she  had  said.  Then 
she  put  in  the  various  wardrobes  and  linen  closets 
pieces  of  the  blessed  bread;  this  bread  never  molds 
— it  has  the  power  to  prevent  the  mice  from  gnaw 
ing  the  linen  and  clothing,  and  the  moths  from  ruin 
ing  them. 


248  Abbe  Pierre 

Five  years  later,  the  baby  wolf  had  grown  to  be 
enormous.  Antoinette  had  given  him  the  name  of 
Pharamond,  and  he  had  become  her  pet.  She  talked 
with  him  as  with  a  child,  and  the  wolf  finally  got  so 
that  he  understood  all  that  she  said  to  him.  During 
the  daytime,  he  lay  down  under  her  bed;  but  during 
the  night,  he  went  to  roam  abroad  with  the  other 
wolves  that  abounded  in  the  forest  of  Aignan,  and 
which  considered  him  as  their  leader.  He  always 
returned  to  the  chateau  at  daybreak. 

Meanwhile,  came  the  winter  of  1830,  one  of  the 
most  severe  ever  known.  The  ground  was  frozen  to 
the  depth  of  more  than  a  meter,  and  was  hard  as  a 
rock.  At  the  beginning  of  January,  there  fell  a 
thick  layer  of  snow,  and  the  ground  remained  covered 
with  it,  without  thawing,  for  seven  weeks.  The 
ditches,  the  ponds,  the  springs,  and  the  streams  froze 
to  a  great  depth — indeed,  the  ice  was  so  thick  that 
you  could  cross  the  ponds  of  Poey  and  Chiberre  with 
a  yoke  of  oxen  harnessed  to  a  cart  without  breaking 
the  ice. 

Why,  that  winter  the  bread  was  frozen  in  the  cup 
boards  and  the  wine  in  the  casks.  The  wild  game, 
as  well  as  the  smaller  birds,  nearly  all  died  from 
cold  and  hunger.  The  crows  even  ventured  into  the 
yards  in  front  of  the  houses  and  fought  there  for 
the  grain  which  the  housewives  threw  to  the  chickens, 
and  they  were  killed  there  with  sticks.  The  wolves, 
famished  by  long  fasts,  committed  frightful  ravages. 
Nearly  all  the  watch-dogs  were  killed  by  them  and 
dragged  behind  the  stacks  of  straw  in  the  barnyards 
and  devoured.  Woe  to  the  peasant  whose  sheep- 
folds,  stables,  and  barns  were  not  securely  fastened ! 
When  he  woke  up  in  the  morning,  he  found  his  cat 
tle  had  been  made  away  with  in  the  night  by  the 


The  Last  Wolves  of  Aignan    249 

wild  beasts.  The  wolves  finally  grew  so  bold  as  to 
attack  human  beings,  and  at  length  their  depredations 
became  such  that  the  inhabitants  of  Aignan  and  the 
neighboring  communes  petitioned  the  prefect  of  the 
Gers  that  a  general  hunt  be  organized,  with  the 
object  of  destroying  these  carnassiers.  The  prefect 
sent  this  petition  to  the  Minister  of  the  Interior,  who 
ordered  Monsieur  de  Ruble,  master  of  wolfhounds 
at  Montauban,  to  go  to  Aignan  to  organize  and  di 
rect  a  wolf  hunt  in  the  forest. 

It  was  late  in  the  month  of  February  that  Mon 
sieur  de  Ruble  arrived  at  Aignan,  accompanied  by 
three  huntsmen  with  their  bugles,  nicknamed  La 
Fleur,  La  Ramee,  and  La  Jeunesse,  and  a  pack  of 
forty-eight  magnificent  hounds.  He  put  up  at  the 
Hotel  Maulezun,  and  then  consulted  with  the  mayor 
concerning  the  plans  for  the  hunt. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  as  the  people  were  com 
ing  from  mass,  the  village  crier  announced  that  there 
was  to  be  a  big  wolf  hunt  in  the  forest.  A  similar 
announcement  was  made  in  the  neighboring  com 
munes,  and  all  the  inhabitants,  whether  they  could 
hunt  or  not,  were  asked  to  lend  their  aid.  The  gath 
ering  was  to  take  place  on  the  following  Tuesday  at 
daybreak,  on  the  little  elevation  of  La  Papourre, 
which  dominates  all  the  forest. 

Antoinette  de  Medrano,  who  had  come  to  mass, 
heard  this  announcement.  As  soon  as  she  returned 
to  Gaure,  she  called  Pharamond;  and  the  wolf  came 
and  crouched  submissively  at  her  feet. 

"Attend  closely,  Pharamond — listen  well  to  what 
I  am  going  to  tell  you." 

The  wolf  lifted  his  pointed  nose  and  pricked  up 
his  hairy  ears  in  sign  of  attention.  Antoinette  went 
on, 


350  Abbe  Pierre 

"There  has  arrived  in  Aignan  a  master  of  wolf 
hounds,  accompanied  by  three  huntsmen  with  their 
bugles,  and  a  numerous  pack  of  hounds,  to  organize 
a  wolf  hunt  in  the  Forest  of  Aignan  Tuesday  morn 
ing  at  daybreak.  They  will  kill  the  wolves  with 
shots  from  their  guns  and  carbines,  'Pan!  Pan! 
Pan!'  " — and  she  accompanied  her  words  with  ex 
pressive  mimicry.  "This  evening,  you  must  induce 
the  wolves  of  the  forest  to  go  away.  You  will  lead 
them  far,  very  far,  through  the  communes  of  Bour- 
rouillan  and  of  Panjas-,  into  the  wooded  heaths  of 
Catalan  and  of  Louvre.  Then  you  will  return  alone 
here.  The  master  of  wolfhounds,  not  finding  any 
wolves,  will  withdraw.  As  soon  as  he  is  gone,  I  will 
let  you  know;  then  you  can  go  and  get  the  wolves 
and  bring  them  back  to  the  forest.  Do  you  under 
stand,  Pharamond?" 

The  wolf  made  assent  by  nodding  his  head  and  by 
howling  three  times,  "Ah-oo !  Ah-oo !  Ah-oo !" 

At  nightfall,  Pharamond  went  to  the  forest,  to 
the  plateau  called  Las  Tachoueres,  and  there  began 
to  howl  in  a  peculiar  and  unwonted  manner.  These 
howls  were  a  summons  to  the  wolves  to  come  to 
gether;  and  similar  howls  replied  from  all  directions. 
The  wolves  arrived  in  numbers  and  formed  a  circle 
around  their  leader. 

As  soon  as  Pharamond,  who  knew  them  every 
one,  saw  that  they  all  had  arrived,  he  told  them  in 
their  language  of  the  danger  which  threatened  them, 
and  urged  them  to  leave  the  forest  immediately.  He 
then  arranged  them  in  single  file,  put  himself  at  their 
head,  and  thus  they  went  through  the  communes  of 
Loubedat,  of  Ste.  Christie,  and  of  Bourrouillan,  and 
came  to  the  wooded  heaths  of  Catalan  and  Louvre, 
where  they  hid  themselves.  Pharamond  made  them 


The  Last  Wolves  of  Aignan    251 

understand  that  they  must  remain  where  they  were 
until  all  danger  had  disappeared  and  he  should  come 
back  to  get  them. 

Then  he  returned  to  the  Chateau  de  Gaure. 

"Well,"  said  Antoinette  to  him,  "have  the  wolves 
gone?" 

"Ah-oo !  Ah-oo !  Ah-oo !"  replied  the  wolf,  nod 
ding  his  head. 

On  the  following  Tuesday,  at  daybreak,  the  hunts 
men  sounded  their  bugles  from  the  elevation  of  La 
Papourre.  The  hunters  arrived  in  force,  to  the 
number  of  about  five  hundred.  The  master  of  the 
wolf  hounds  made  them  form  in  a  circle  about  him 
and  said, 

"I  am  going  to  send  one  of  my  huntsmen  ahead 
with  a  hound  in  leash.  He  will  keep  on  until  the 
hound  detects  the  scent  of  a  wolf.  This  place  will 
be  noted  carefully,  for  wolves  have  the  habit  of  hid 
ing  together  during  the  day.  Wherever  that  wolf 
whose  scent  we  find  will  be,  there,  also,  will  be  the 
others.  We  will  surround  that  place  and  let  loose 
the  dogs — and  then,  on  with  the  music!" 

As  he  was  finishing  this  speech,  Antoinette  de  Me- 
drano  came  out  of  the  crowd  and  stood  in  front  of 
him  and  said, 

"I  had  heard,  Sir  .Captain,  that  they  had  sent  to 
Montauban  for  you  to  organize  a  hunt  for  wolves  in 
this  forest  of  ours.  But  they  got  you  here  to  no 
purpose;  there  is  not  a  single  wolf  in  the  whole 
forest!" 

"You  lie,  old  sorceress !"  interjected  a  peasant  by 
the  name  of  Mathieu  de  La  Cahuse.  "The  wolves 
are  in  the  forest  in  great  numbers !" 

"Well,  Captain,"  rejoined  Antoinette,  "if  you  can 


252  Abbe  Pierre 

find  a  single  wolf,  I  will  make  you  the  present  of  a 
white  blackbird  that  will  sing  the  livelong  day!" 

"Enough  of  this!"  exploded  the  Captain.  "Off 
with  you,  old  hag,  or  I  will  loose  my  dogs  and  let 
them  devour  you !" 

Antoinette  slipped  away. 

He  who  was  called  La  Fleur  started  out  at  once 
with  a  hound  in  leash  and  skirted  the  forest.  Need 
less  to  say,  he  did  not  find  the  trace  of  a  single  wolf. 
He  then  went  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
woods  with  the  same  result.  Finally  he  returned  to 
the  Captain,  saying, 

"There  is  not  a  single  wolf  in  the  forest;  I  have 
crossed  it  in  all  directions  without  finding  the  least 


trace." 


The  Captain  thereupon  returned  to  Aignan,  fol 
lowed  by  most  of  the  hunters.  He  was  in  a  very  bad 
temper.  One,  Jean  Monjeau,  followed  him  to  the 
inn  and  said  to  him, 

"Sir  Captain,  if  we  have  not  found  any  wolves  in 
the  forest,  I  will,  if  you  will  allow  me,  venture  an 
explanation  and  give  you  some  good  advice." 

"Speak!"  replied  Monsieur  de  Ruble,  in  a  haughty 
tone. 

"Did  you  notice  well  the  woman  who  told  you  this 
morning  that  there  was  not  a  single  wolf  in  the  for 
est?" 

"Perfectly;  what  then?" 

"Well,  it  is  she  who  sent  them  away." 

"What  kind  of  a  thing  are  you  telling  me?" 

"The  truth,  Sir  Captain;  that  woman  is  a  most 
accomplished  sorceress.  She  lives  in  the  Chateau  de 
Gaure  at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  and  possesses  a  mon 
strous  wolf  which  is  believed  to  be  a  devil  in  a  wolf's 
form.  She  calls  him  Pharamond,  and  converses  with 


The  Last  Wolves  of  Aignan    253 

him  as  with  a  person;  and  the  wolf  understands 
everything  she  says.  Having  heard  of  your  arrival, 
and  that  you  were  going  to  organize  a  big  hunt,  she 
must  have  told  Pharamond  to  warn  the  wolves  away. 
Depend  upon  it,  that  is  the  reason  why  you  haven't 
found  a  single  wolf!" 

"Nonsense !"  blustered  the  Captain;  "I  do  not  be 
lieve  in  any  of  your  silly  stories  about  sorceresses  and 
devils!" 

"Well,  Sir,  in  order  that  you  may  test  the  truth 
of  what  I  say,  I  advise  you  to  do  as  follows :  Go  to 
morrow  about  the  village  with  your  huntsmen  and 
let  it  be  known  that  you  are  going  to  return  to 
Montauban.  You  will  then  actually  leave  Aignan; 
but  you  will  stop  when  you  get  as  far  as  Lupiac,  at 
the  Hotel  Bajan.  There  you  will  wait  quietly  for 
five  days.  The  sorceress  will  learn  of  your  depart 
ure;  she  will  tell  her  wolf  to  go  and  get  his  compan 
ions  and  bring  them  back  into  the  forest.  I  live  at 
the  edge  of  the  woods;  as  soon  as  the  wolves  are 
back,  I  shall  hear  their  howls;  I  shall  then  come  and 
warn  you,  and  then  you  will  return  to  Aignan  at 
night,  stealthily.  Monsieur  le  Maire  will  then  take 
measures  to  warn  the  hunters  secretly,  and  you  will 
be  able  to  organize  the  hunt  without  drum  or  trum 
pet.  I  assure  you,  Sir  Captain,  you  will  find  that 
there  are  plenty  of  wolves." 

After  a  moment,  Monsieur  de  Ruble  made  up  his 
mind. 

"In  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  have  not  much  confi 
dence  in  what  you  tell  me,  I  am  inclined  to  try  your 
plan  out  of  curiosity." 

Antoinette  de  Medrano,  having  duly  heard  of  the 
departure  of  Monsieur  de  Ruble,  went  to  Aignan  to 
verify  the  report.  It  was  confirmed  for  her  by  the 


254  Abbe  Pierre 

innkeeper.  She  returned  to  Gaure,  happy  with  the 
success  of  her  stratagem.  She  called  Pharamond  and 
said  to  him, 

"You  may  now  go  and  get  the  wolves;  the  hunts 
men  have  gone  away  and  there  is  no  more  danger.'* 

Two  days  after,  just  before  dawn,  Jean  Monjeau 
went  and  climbed  a  tree  at  the  edge  of  the  forest 
and  began  to  howl  like  a  wolf.  He  imitated  their 
howling  with  such  perfection  that  it  was  impossible 
to  tell  that  it  was  not  a  wolf.  Howls  replied  to  his 
from  all  directions  in  the  forest.  The  wolves  came 
and  circled  round  the  tree  on  which  he  had  climbed 
without  discovering  him;  for  wild  beasts  always  look 
horizontally  and  never  upwards.  He  waited  for  the 
sun  to  appear,  and  then  descended  from  the  tree  and 
proceeded  immediately  to  Lupiac  to  tell  Monsieur 
de  Ruble  that  the  wolves  had  returned. 

Monsieur  de  Ruble  waited  for  nightfall,  and  then 
went  to  Aignan.  The  next  day,  the  mayor  sent  se 
cret  messengers  to  warn  the  hunters  of  Aignan  and 
the  neighboring  communes  and  to  invite  them  to 
come  and  lend  their  aid  in  the  hunt,  informing  them 
that  the  gathering  would  take  place  two  days  later 
at  daybreak,  on  the  elevation  of  La  Papourre. 

At  the  appointed  time,  as  soon  as  the  hunters  had 
gathered  in  full  force,  Monsieur  de  Ruble  ordered 
La  Fleur  to  skirt  the  woods  as  before,  with  a  hound 
in  leash,  to  find  the  scent.  This  time,  the  huntsman 
had  gone  hardly  a  hundred  meters  when  the  hound 
stopped,  sniffed  the  ground  and  bayed;  then  he 
pushed  into  the  brush,  followed  by  La  Fleur.  At 
length,  they  came  to  the  little  gorge  at  the  bottom 
of  which  runs  the  brook  of  Sarr-nau.  There  the  dog 
stopped  before  a  thick  brush,  gave  a  short  and  rau- 


The  Last  Wolves  of  Aignan    255 

cous  bark,  his  eyes  bloodshot,  his  hair  bristling,  and 
braced  himself  ready  to  leap. 

La  Fleur  held  the  dog  back,  pulling  at  the  leash ; 
he  noted  the  exact  spot  where  the  wolves  were  hid 
den,  and  straightway  returned  to  the  Captain  and 
reported. 

Without  delay,  Monsieur  de  Ruble  led  the  hunters 
to  the  place  and  made  them  form  themselves  about 
it  in  a  threefold  circle,  instructing  them  as  follows: 

"I  am  going  to  let  loose  my  dogs.  When  the 
wolves  are  frightened  from  cover,  be  careful  not  to 
miss  them;  above  all,  take  heed  not  to  shoot  each 
other." 

Leaving  the  hunters,  Monsieur  de  Ruble  then  took 
his  hounds  to  the  exact  place  where  La  Fleur  had 
first  come  on  the  scent.  The  dogs  were  unleashed 
and  put  on  the  track  of  it.  Into  the  woods  they 
plunged  with  an  infernal  uproar.  Coming  to  the 
place  where  the  wolves  were,  they  started  them 
quickly  from  their  hiding  place,  so  that  they  fled  in 
all  directions.  On  arriving  at  the  triple  circle  of 
the  hunters,  they  were  welcomed  by  a  formidable 
volley  of  shots.  Suddenly  turning  tail,  they  ran  back 
and  finally  massed  themselves  together  in  a  deep 
ravine  in  the  midst  of  inextricable  thickets,  and,  back 
ing  themselves  up  against  a  steep  bank,  offered  ag 
gressive  and  determined  defiance  to  the  hounds. 

Now,  when  Pharamond,  who  all  this  time  was 
lying  down  under  Antoinette's  bed,  heard  the  up 
roar  and  the  hunting  bugles,  he  bounded  toward  the 
open  door  of  the  chateau  to  rush  out;  but  Antoinette 
forestalled  him  and  shut  the  door  in  his  face.  The 
wolf  sprang  to  the  window;  with  the  impact  of  his 
huge  body  he  smashed  the  panes  into  a  thousand 
fragments  and  sped  like  an  arrow  toward  the  forest, 


256  Abbe  Pierre 

howling.  The  wolves,  hearing  the  cry  of  their  chief, 
replied  to  it  and  took  courage. 

When  he  came  to  the  circle  of  the  hunters,  he  was 
greeted  with  two  shots;  but  he  ran  so  very  swiftly 
that  he  was  not  hit.  As  soon  as  he  reached  the 
wolves,  he  formed  them  into  two  groups;  in  one,  he 
placed  all  the  adult  males  to  the  number  of  about  a 
hundred;  in  the  other,  the  she-wolves  and  the  young 
ones.  This  second  group  he  made  to  understand  that 
a  terrible  battle  was  about  to  take  place,  and  that 
they  must  take  advantage  of  it  to  run  away  in  single 
file,  proceeding  in  the  direction  of  the  Pyrenees 
mountains.  Then,  at  the  head  of  the  males,  he 
rushed  at  the  dogs. 

The  dogs  withstood  the  assault  bravely,  and  the 
gigantic  struggle  began.  The  wolves  and  the  dogs, 
rearing  themselves  on  their  haunches,  embraced  each 
other  with  their  front  legs,  their  jaws  interlocked, 
and  fought  like  grim  wrestlers.  In  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  Pharamond  had  strangled  two  hounds  and 
had  sprung  upon  a  third;  but  the  circle  of  the  hunters 
closed  in,  and  they  began  to  kill  the  wolves  right 
and  left.  With  a  shot  from  his  carbine,  the  hunts 
man,  La  Jeunesse,  shattered  Pharamond's  thigh;  the 
wolf  rushed  at  him  on  three  legs  and  leaped  at  his 
throat;  but,  impeded  in  his  movements  by  his  wound, 
he  only  reached  the  huntsman's  shoulder,  into  which 
he  planted  his  formidable  fangs,  throwing  him  to 
the  ground.  La  Jeunesse  would  certainly  have  been 
lost  then  and  there  had  not  his  comrade,  La  Ramee, 
felled  the  wolf  with  a  shot  from  his  carbine,  its  muz 
zle  pressed  close  against  him,  so  that  the  shot  went 
through  his  chest.  Pharamond  let  go,  and  rolled 
down  the  hill  into  the  ravine. 

After  this  the  hunters  made  short  work  of  the 


The  Last  Wolves  of  Aignan    257 

wolves,  until,  at  last,  there  remained  not  a  single  one. 
Of  the  superb  pack  of  dogs,  there  were  left  only 
four,  and  these  sorely  crippled. 

When  Monsieur  de  Ruble  surveyed  the  place  of 
carnage  and  realized  that  his  pack  was  reduced  to 
nought,  he  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  anger  which  cul 
minated  in  a  veritable  paroxysm  of  fury.  His  face 
became  purple  and  the  veins  stood  out  on  his  fore 
head.  While  he  was  standing  thus,  suddenly  Antoin 
ette  appeared  before  him.  Her  eyes  were  blazing. 

"You  are  a  barbarous  monster,"  she  hurled  at 
him,  to  come  thus  and  massacre  these  poor  beasts 
that  have  never  done  you  any  hurt!" 

"Ah,  it  is  you,  is  it — wretched  sorceress  that  you 
are! — I  am  going  to  have  you  shot! — La  Fleur!" 
he  shouted,  "kill  this  woman  with  your  carbine;  I 
will  answer  for  everything!" 

Antoinette  crossed  her  arms  on  her  breast  and 
spoke  up, 

"Very  well,  then;  let  us  see  if  you  will  be  coward 
enough  to  assassinate  a  defenseless  Christian 
woman !" 

La  Fleur  raised  his  gun,  aimed  at  Antoinette  in 
the  breast  and  pressed  the  trigger;  as  the  report  re 
sounded,  the  huntsman  fell  backward  as  if  struck  by 
a  thunderbolt;  his  carbine  had  burst  and  a  fragment 
of  the  metal  had  pierced  his  eye  and  penetrated 
his  brain.  While  his  companions  rushed  to  him  to 
pick  him  up,  Antoinette  disappeared  into  the  thicket. 

Monsier  de  Ruble  had  a  stretcher  improvised  with 
branches  to  carry  the  body  of  La  Fleur  to  Aignan. 
La  Ramee  with  three  others  bore  it  and,  followed 
by  the  master  of  the  wolfhounds  and  a  crowd  of 
hunters,  proceeded  toward  the  village. 

But  the  misfortunes  of  this  memorable  day  had 


258  Abbe  Pierre 

only  begun,  and  Monsieur  de  Ruble  soon  found  out 
that  one  cannot  so  lightly  defy  the  powers  of  necro 
mancy.  When  they  had  come  to  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  La  Ramee  caught  his  foot  under  the  root  of 
a  tree  and  stumbled  and  fell  so  unhappily  that  he 
broke  his  thigh  bone  in  two  places,  and  they  had  to 
make  another  stretcher  to  carry  him  also. 

It  was  in  this  pitiable  state  that  Monsieur  de  Ruble 
and  his  huntsmen  arrived  at  the  inn.  The  doctor 
was  sent  for  immediately;  but,  unfortunately,  he 
(whose  name  was  Lafont)  had  just  gone  to  make 
a  call  in  the  country  and  would  not  be  back  until 
evening.  La  Ramee  was  placed  on  a  bed.  As  for 
La  Jeunesse,  they  put  on  his  injured  shoulder  a  lin 
seed  plaster,  for  he  was  suffering  unspeakably  from 
the  bite  of  Pharamond.  This  soothed  the  wound  a 
little. 

The  innkeeper  then  approached  Monsieur  de 
Ruble : 

"Sir,  dinner  is  ready;  come  to  table."  To  which 
Monsieur  de  Ruble  replied  that  he  did  not  wish  to 
eat  anything. 

"Oh,  yes!"  remonstrated  the  innkeeper,  "you  are 
fatigued  and  hungry  and  it  will  do  you  good  to  take 
something." 

"Very  well,  be  it  so;  but  go  and  tell  La  Jeunesse 
to  come,  if  he  is  able,  and  keep  me  company." 

In  spite  of  his  suffering,  and  out  of  deference  to 
his  master,  the  huntsman  joined  him  at  table;  but 
neither  of  them  scarcely  touched  the  viands  that 
were  spread  before  them.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
Captain  drank  generously,  and  toward  the  end  of 
the  meal  ordered  two  bottles  of  champagne  with 
some  cakes.  La  Jeunesse  hardly  drank  at  all  and 
Monsieur  de  Ruble  emptied  the  two  bottles  by  him- 


The  Last  Wolves  of  Aignan    259 

self.  Then  the  coffee  was  served,  and  with  it  a  liter 
of  old  Armagnac  brandy.  La  Jeunesse  took  his 
coffee  without  the  brandy;  but  Monsieur  de  Ruble 
poured  it  into  his  cup  recklessly. 

All  of  a  sudden  he  seized  the  bottle,  put  the  neck 
to  his  mouth  and  with  one  long  draught  imbibed  the 
remainder  of  the  contents.  A  few  moments  later 
his  face  became  congested,  he  started  up  convulsively, 
tugged  violently  at  his  cravat  and  broke  the  buttons 
off  his  shirt,  gasping, 

"Air!    Air!    I  am  stifling!" 

He  beat  the  air  with  his  two  hands  and  then  sud 
denly  crumpled  down  and  fell  prone,  his  face  against 
the  floor  and  his  arms  outstretched  in  the  form  of 
the  cross,  dead. 

When,  after  much  excitement,  the  body  of  his 
master  was  disposed  of,  La  Jeunesse,  who  was  suf 
fering  more  and  more  grievously  from  the  deep 
wound  Pharamond  had  inflicted,  went  and  lay  down 
on  a  bed.  About  four  o'clock  in  the  evening  the 
doctor  returned  from  his  call  and  went  immediately 
to  the  inn.  He  examined  the  thigh  of  La  Ramee  and 
said  with  considerable  concern, 

"The  inflammation  is  spreading  higher  up;  ampu 
tation  is  the  only  thing  that  can  save  him!" 

"Operate  on  me  if  you  like,n  replied  the  hunts 
man;  "I  am  not  a  coward." 

The  doctor  began  his  work  at  once;  but  alas!  in 
the  very  midst  of  the  operation  the  patient  was 
taken  with  a  fainting  spell  and  expired  before  re 
gaining  consciousness. 

Monsieur  Lafont  then  went  into  the  room  in  which 
La  Jeunesse  was  lying  down.  Him  he  found  in  a 
fearful  condition;  his  eyes  were  flaming  like  those  of 
a  maniac,  and  from  his  mouth  came  blood  and  foam 


260  Abbe  Pierre 

— evident  signs  of  hydrophobia.  With  a  hoarse  and 
unnatural  voice  he  cried  out, 

"Why  do  you  come  here? — Begone,  or  my  teeth 
shall  rend  you!" 

The  doctor  hastily  retired  from  the  room,  locked 
the  door  securely,  and  sent  for  two  of  the  most 
sturdy  men  in  Aignan,  Durban  and  Laclotte.  When 
they  came,  he  said  to  the  former, 

"Here  is  a  mattress.  Take  it,  enter  the  room  of 
La  Jeunesse  quickly,  cover  him  with  it  and  hold  him 
tight.  Laclotte  and  I  will  bind  his  legs  at  the  ankles 
and  his  arms  at  the  wrists." 

All  this  was  soon  accomplished. 

Then  the  doctor  had  a  warm  bath  prepared,  in 
which  they  put  La  Jeunesse.  This  done,  he  merci 
fully  opened  the  four  arteries  of  the  arms  and  the 
legs,  and  the  huntsman  died  without  feeling  death, 
like  a  man  who  goes  to  sleep. 

And  now  a  word,  and  the  rest  of  the  story  is 
told. 

As  soon  as  the  hunters  had  left  the  forest,  Antoin 
ette  went  with  Jeanne  to  the  place  of  battle  to  look 
for  Pharamond,  if  he  was  still  alive,  or  to  get  his 
body,  if  he  was  dead.  They  found  him  at  last, 
stretched  at  the  bottom  of  the  ravine,  showing  no 
signs  of  life.  Antoinette  called  to  him, 

"Pharamond!     Pharamond!" 

The  wolf,  who  was  not  quite  dead,  opened  his 
eyes.  Antoinette  approached  him,  crouched  down 
beside  him,  took  his  head  on  her  knees  and  caressed 
him  and  kissed  him  several  times  on  his  nose,  and 
the  wolf  feebly  licked  her  hands.  He  made  an  effort 
to  get  up,  but  a  jet  of  blood  spurted  from  his  wound. 
He  had  a  convulsive  spasm,  his  eyes  became  veiled, 
and  he  breathed  his  last. 


The  Last  Wolves  of  Aignan    261 

Antoinette  had  his  body  carried  to  the  Chateau 
de  Gaure  and  ordered  a  grave  dug  near  the  front  of 
the  main  door  of  the  chateau,  and  here  he  was 
buried.  From  that  day  on,  she  shut  herself  up  in 
her  chamber  and  would  see  nobody  save  Jeanne  Gar- 
bay,  with  whom  she  spent  whole  days  speaking  about 
Pharamond.  She  ate  hardly  anything  and  gradually 
wasted  away. 

Feeling  her  end  near,  she  sent  for  the  cure  oi 
Aignan  and  the  notary.  She  confessed,  received  the 
last  sacraments  of  the  church  and  dictated  her  testa> 
ment  to  the  notary,  directing  him  to  sell  her  farms 
and  to  distribute  the  money  to  the  most  needy  fami 
lies  of  the  parish  of  Aignan.  She  bequeathed  the 
Chateau  de  Gaure  with  its  dependencies  to  Jeanne 
Garbay. 

Three  days  later,  she  died. 

Since  that  time,  no  one  has  ever  seen  any  more 
wolves  in  the  Forest  of  Aignan.  But  the  wild  boars 
abound  there  to  this  day. 


Chapter  XXXI:  What  One  Gets  for  a 
Pair  of  Gloves 

I  AM  not  improving  my  English  by  David's  visits 
to  my  garden  as  much  as  I  hoped,  for  when  he 
talks,  he  much  prefers  to  practice  his  French 
on  me. 

A  few  days  ago,  I  became  aware  that  he  was  using 
a  certain  phrase  that  stirred  my  memory  vaguely; 
it  was  as  if  something  of  long  ago  spoke  through 
him;  a  something  familiar,  which  puzzled  me  greatly 
— that  is,  until  yesterday.  Then  it  suddenly  flashed 
on  my  mind  that  this  phrase  he  was  repeatedly  using 
was  a  favorite  expression  of  Germaine's  father. 
Thereupon,  I  thought  I  saw  the  solution :  David  had 
probably  caught  this  trick  of  speech  from  Germaine 
herself,  who  unconsciously  imitates  her  father  in 
many  things. 

It  appears,  then,  that  I  am  not  Monsieur  Ware's 
only  teacher  of  French ! 

What  a  pity  that  the  soul  has  to  be  encumbered 
with  words  in  order  to  convey  its  ideas !  Why  can 
not  our  thoughts  meet  each  other  without  the  clumsy 
medium  of  language? — language  that  divides  and 
confuses  mankind  and  makes  us  forever  misunder 
stand  one  another? 

That  is  one  thing  in  which  the  angels  in  heaven 
262 


What  One  Gets  for  a  Pair  of  Gloves    263 

have  a  great  advantage  over  us.  According  to  St. 
Jean  Damascin,  the  angels  have  no  need  at  all  of 
tongues  or  ears,  still  less  do  they  use  signs  and  ges 
ticulations,  like  the  deaf  mutes.  On  the  contrary,  it 
is  likely,  as  this  same  author  says,  that  they  simply 
direct  their  thoughts  toward  each  other  by  the  exer 
cise  of  their  wills,  somewhat  as  a  child,  with  a  frag 
ment  of  a  mirror,  flashes  the  sun  into  the  eyes  of 
whomever  he  chooses.  Perhaps  they  speak  through 
music — the  artists  sometimes  picture  them  with  harps 
or  trumpets;  what  delight  to  express  one's  thoughts 
through  music,  a  language  all  of  us  can  understand ! 
I  like  exceedingly  a  sentence  I  found  lately  in  one 
of  my  old  books;  it  expresses  the  entire  matter  as 
well  as  mere  words  can : 

We  say  one  thing,  and  often  think  another;  the 
angels,  on  the  contrary,  reveal  their  hearts  infallibly 
and  manifest  themselves  plainly  on  the  soul  of  the 
one  to  whom  they  speak,  who  sees  into  their  sub 
stance  as  through  a  clear  glass,  discerning  their 
thoughts  in  all  their  truth  and  candor. 

But  in  whatever  fashion  the  angels  speak  with 
one  another,  it  is  manifest  that  they  do  not  need  to 
speak  to  God,  save,  perhaps,  for  their  own  soul's 
sake.  Their  thoughts  He  knows  before  they  ever 
think  to  bring  them  to  His  infinite  beholding.  And 
in  this  one  thing,  angels  and  men  are  alike. 

David,  much  to  his  distress,  lost  some  of  MariusT 
story  of  the  wolves  just  because  it  had  to  be  told  in 
language.  So,  to-day  I  cleared  up  the  parts  he  had 
not  quite  understood.  I  also  told  him  that  the  very 


264  Abbe  Pierre 

inn  at  which  the  master  of  wolfhounds  tarried — the 
Hotel  Maulezun — is  still  standing,  and  that  from 
the  window  of  my  back  chamber  I  can  look  across 
the  alley  through  the  crumbling  archway  of  its 
ancient  yard.  He  wanted  to  go  at  once  to  see  the 
room  where  La  Jeunesse  was  smothered  with  the 
mattress. 

But  I  had  something  else  in  mind.  I  took  him  by 
the  road  that  ascends  the  long  hill  on  top  of  which 
is  the  beginning  of  the  Forest  of  Aignan,  where  the 
wolves  used  to  be.  At  last,  we  arrived  on  a  sort 
of  plateau  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  where  there  is 
a  charcoal-burner's  hut,  and  there  we  stopped  to 
rest.  Far  below  us,  our  little  village  dozed  lazily  in 
the  afternoon  sun. 

"This,"  I  said,  uis  that  very  elevation  of  La  Pa- 
pourre,  where  Monsieur  de  Ruble  gathered  all  his 
men  together  on  the  fateful  dawn  of  the  big  hunt. 
And  there,  just  on  the  other  side  of  the  woods  to 
the  north,  was  the  chateau  where  Antoinette  lived." 

David  remarked  how  small  the  forest  was,  after 
all,  and  how  it  could  hardly  hide  so  many  wolves. 

Of  course,  compared  with  American  forests,  such 
as  I  once  read  about  in  Chateaubriand,  this  one  is 
little  enough.  Yet,  I  remember  a  peasant  who 
thought  that  he  knew  the  Forest  of  Aignan  well.  He 
shot  a  bird  while  he  was  standing  by  a  certain  oak 
tree.  He  went  to  pick  up  his  bird,  and  then  wan 
dered  for  two  whole  hours  trying  to  find  that  oak 
again.  He  could  recognize  nothing.  He  was  lost. 

Over  four  hundred  years  ago,  the  Count  of  Ar- 
magnac  presented  this  entire  forest  (much  larger 


What  One  Gets  for  a  Pair  of  Gloves    265 

then)  to  the  commune  of  Aignan,  provided  the  lat 
ter  furnished  him  annually  with  uone  pair  of  plain, 
white  gloves  for  the  fete  of  La  Toussaint."  Those 
are  the  very  words.  The  whole  agreement,  solemnly 
attested  by  notaries,  and  dated  the  29th  of  Septem 
ber,  1481,  is  to  be  found  in  the  archives  of  our  vil 
lage — or,  rather,  it  was  there  until  the  old  town  hall 
burned  down  a  few  years  ago.  And  to  this  day,  the 
wood  that  is  cut  in  the  forest  belongs  to  the  families 
of  the  commune  as  their  right,  and  it  will  be  thus  as 
long  as  the  forest  lasts. 

We  were  seated  on  the  slope  just  below  the  char 
coal-burner's  hut,  looking  out  over  the  hills.  After 
quite  a  silence,  during  which  I  was  musing  on  the 
forest,  its  poetry,  its  legends  handed  down  from 
long  ago,  there  came  into  my  head  the  episode  of 
the  Abbe  Druilhet,  which  I  proceeded  at  once  to  tell 
David,  knowing  his  pleasure  in  such  things. 

It,  too,  belongs  to  Marius.    He  says  it  is  true. 

AN  ANECDOTE  OF  THE  ABBE  DRUILHET 

When  the  Revolution  came  and  overturned  the 
old  order  of  things,  the  people  of  this  region  were 
not  at  all  in  sympathy  with  it.  Indeed,  they  actively 
rebelled,  and  at  length  took  up  arms  against  the  new 
regime.  At  their  head  was  the  Abbe  Druilhet,  priest 
of  Margouet.  a  determined  man,  possessed  of  her 
culean  strength.  Among  the  leaders  were  also  the 
three  sons  of  the  Sir  Knight  of  Labourre,  whose 
castle  once  rose  on  the  very  place  now  occupied  in 
our  village  by  the  convent  school. 

The  rebels  were  in  the  habit  of  gathering  at  night 


266  Abbe  Pierre 

in  great  numbers  in  the  middle  of  the  Forest  of  Aig- 
nan.  The  signal  that  brought  them  together  was  the 
hoot  of  the  owl,  which  they  imitated  perfectly. 

Naturally,  it  was  not  long  before  the  rebellion  got 
noised  abroad.  At  length,  Citizen  Daubes,  the  mag 
istrate  of  Nogaro,  was  forced  to  do  something.  He 
sent  a  company  of  the  National  Guard,  commanded 
by  one,  Lieutenant  Sarthe,  to  seize  this  Abbe  Druil- 
het  and  take  him  to  Nogaro,  prisoner.  The  Abbe 
was  hiding  at  Margouet,  in  the  house  of  his  friend, 
Laborde.  It  was  in  the  afternoon,  about  four 
o'clock,  when  the  guards  surrounded  this  house  and 
then  violently  forced  their  way  inside.  Before  the 
Abbe  could  escape,  Lieutenant  Sarthe  seized  him  by 
the  collar,  calling  out  in  a  loud  voice, 

"In  the  name  of  the  law,  I  arrest  you !" 

But  you  may  well  believe  that  it  was  not  to  be  so 
easy  as  all  that!  With  an  incredibly  quick  move 
ment,  the  Abbe  suddenly  disengaged  himself,  and, 
with  a  thrust  of  his  bull-like  head  into  the  very  mid 
dle  of  Citizen  Sarthe's  chest,  he  sent  him  rolling  on 
to  the  floor.  Then  the  Abbe  made  a  rush  for  the 
doorway.  The  guards  barred  his  passage  there  and 
threw  themselves  upon  him,  and  in  spite  of  his  great 
strength,  he  had  to  submit  to  their  overwhelming 
numbers.  Then,  bound  hand  and  foot,  he  was 
dragged  along  the  road  toward  Nogaro. 

Now,  it  happened  that  some  peasants  of  Mar 
gouet,  having  been  secret  witnesses  of  all  this,  began 
to  send  forth  the  hoot  of  the  owl  from  all  directions. 
This  signal  was  heard  far  and  wide,  through  this 
and  the  neighboring  communes.  When  the  company 
of  guards,  sixty  men  strong,  dragging  the  Abbe 
Druilhet  along  with  them,  came  to  the  hollow  at  the 
foot  of  the  Chateau  Mauhic,  they  all  at  once  found 


What  One  Gets  for  a  Pair  of  Gloves    267 

themselves  surrounded  by  more  than  three  hundred 
peasants,  armed  with  guns,  axes,  and  scythes,  de 
manding  the  release  of  the  prisoner  if  they  did  not 
want  to  be  exterminated.  Yielding  to  superior 
strength,  and  in  order  to  avoid  a  bloody  struggle, 
the  Lieutenant  gave  in  to  them.  The  priest  hastily 
returned  to  his  parish  and  hid,  sometimes  in  one 
house,  and  sometimes  in  another,  and  try  as  they 
would  they  could  not  succeed  in  retaking  him. 

After  a  moment,  David  looked  at  me  in  surprise, 
and  said, 

"Is  that  all?" 

I  had  to  tell  him  that  this  is  the  way  Marius  re 
lates  it,  and  that  he  always  stops  right  here,  prob 
ably  because  there  is  nothing  more  to  recount. 

By  this  time,  the  sun  was  low  enough  so  that  the 
shadow  of  the  little  charcoal-burner's  hut  had  crept 
over  close  to  us.  Still,  we  sat  there  for  a  little  while 
longer.  All  about  us  on  the  hillside  the  prickly  gorse 
was  growing  in  rank  profusion,  vivid  with  its  lit 
tle  yellow  flowers,  the  long  stems  bending  gently 
to  the  breeze.  I  lazily  reached  out  and  plucked  one 
of  them,  though  the  sharp  needles  hurt  my  hand. 

This  prickly  gorse  with  its  tiny  yellow  flowers — 
it  is  to  me  the  symbol  of  my  village  and  the  country 
round  about.  I  have  known  it  since  childhood, 
when  it  cruelly  scratched  my  bare  legs  and  caught  in 
my  clothes.  It  grows  everywhere  man  will  let  it. 
One  sees  its  grayish  green,  often  mixed  with  the  pur 
ple  heather,  rising  above  the  rough  hedges  on  the 
high  banks  of  country  roads,  its  long  stems  swaying 
in  the  wind.  Sometimes  carts  go  along  the  road, 


268  Abbe  Pierre 

piled  high  with  this  same  gorse — it  makes  an  excel 
lent  bed  for  the  oxen  to  lie  on  in  their  stalls;  the 
needles  cannot  penetrate  their  tough  hides. 

It  was  near  here,  on  this  very  hillside  among  the 
gorse,  that  a  monastery  was  built  away  back  in  the 
night  of  time,  Marius  says  a  great  deal  more  than  a 
thousand  years  ago.  And  what  did  the  monks  call  it  ? 
Well,  the  gorse  grew  everywhere  around  them,  so 
what  more  natural  than  that  they  should  name  the 
monastery  and  the  little  cluster  of  thatched  houses 
after  the  gorse — agnas  was  the  Gascon  name  for 
it;  and  after  awhile  it  became  Aignan  in  our  French, 
and  Aignan  my  village  is  to  this  day.  Anyway,  that 
is  what  Marius  says,  and  I  would  as  soon  believe 
him  as  anybody. 

The  monastery  is  gone  now;  but  where  it  stood  is 
a  gabled  house,  up  whose  front  the  grapevines  clam 
ber.  It  is  just  there,  where  the  forest  tumbles  over 
the  top  of  the  hill.  It  is  still  called  Monjeau,  which 
is  patois  for  monastery;  and  there  actually  lived  the 
Jean  Monjeau  that  climbed  the  tree  that  dawn  of 
the  big  hunt  and  howled  so  successfully  at  the  wolves 
to  call  them  together. 

I  like  to  think  of  the  monks  as  they  lived,  and 
prayed,  and  sang,  and  labored  on  that  hillside  thir 
teen  centuries  ago,  there  in  their  wilderness  of  gorse. 
The  gorse,  with  its  prickly  needles  and  its  tiny  blos 
soms  of  yellow — fit  symbol,  is  it  not,  of  the  lives  of 
God's  saints  here  on  earth!  Oh,  there  are  thorns 
that  pierce  the  flesh;  but  amid  the  thorns,  yes,  praise 
God,  amid  the  thorns,  grow  the  little  golden  flowers 
of  our  immortal  faith ! 


Chapter  XXXII :  The  Pipes  of  Pan 

THIS  morning  I  was  awakened  very  early  by 
some  liquid  notes  of  birdlike   sweetness  that 
drifted  through  my  partly  open  shutter  from 
the  street  beneath.     Up  and  down  the  scale  the  ca 
pricious  melody  scampered,  now  thin  and  plaintive, 
now  rippling  down  a  cadence  like  the  fall  of  a  wood 
land  stream. 

It  was  the  goat-man.  He  had  stopped  in  front 
of  the  house  across  the  way,  his  ten  or  fifteen  goats 
straggling  along  the  street,  ready  to  be  milked  should 
any  one  desire  it.  For  my  part,  his  music  was  more 
precious  than  his  milk;  and  as  I  lay  there  half  in 
dream,  it  seemed  as  though  the  pipes  of  Pan  were 
echoing  from  some  cool  depth  of  forest.  I  knew, 
though,  that  if  I  looked  out,  the  illusion  would 
quickly  vanish;  I  should  find  on  my  goat-man  no 
hoofs  and  horns,  and  nothing  resembling  the  great 
Pan  except  the  good-nature  of  the  goatherd's  face. 
Even  his  rapturous  pipe  is  not  the  least  like  Pan's 
syrinx,  being  of  one  piece  like  a  flageolet,  rather  than 
that  row  of  reeds  with  which  the  grotesque  god  was 
wont  to  woo  his  nymphs  in  ancient  woods. 

What  luck  one  has  on  some  days !  This  day  was 
one  of  the  fortunate  ones,  not  because  it  was  the  I4th 
of  July,  but  for  two  other  reasons :  first,  because  it 

269 


270  Abbe  Pierre 

commenced  with  the  music  of  the  pipes  of  Pan;  and 
next,  because  when  I  got  to  my  garden  after  mass 
and  stood  on  the  highest  point  and  looked  across 
the  valleys  away  to  the  south — why,  there  were  the 
Pyrenees,  plainly  visible  along  the  horizon  as  far 
as  one  could  see. 

The  Pyrenees  furnish  the  dominant  note  of  the 
symphony  that  is  our  landscape — that  is,  sometimes 
they  do,  for  they  are  by  no  means  a  constant  note, 
being  invisible  for  days  at  a  time,  or  so  slightly  vis 
ible  that  one  can  hardly  distinguish  their  dim  peaks 
from  the  clouds. 

But  this  morning!  Lofty,  deep-furrowed,  and 
patched  with  snow,  they  gave  themselves  to  the  smile 
of  the  sun,  an  apocalypse  of  sudden  beauty.  Their 
foothills  were  hidden  by  a  gray-blue  haze,  so  that 
their  higher  portions  mounted  into  the  upper  air  as 
though  resting  on  nothing — a  miracle  let  down  from 
heaven,  giving  the  impression  of  impossible  heights. 

They  have  a  rollicking  song  they  sing  about  the 
Pyrenees.  One  hears  it  when  companies  of  youths 
pass  along  the  road  on  the  way  to  some  fete.  It  is 
really  the  song  of  a  mountain  shepherd,  who  is 
urged  by  a  stranger  to  forsake  his  mountains  and 
follow  him  to  the  lowlands  and  cease  to  be  a  shep 
herd  more.  But  the  loyal  shepherd  sings, 

Never-never!    That  were  folly! 

Happy,  happy  is  my  life. 

My  sash  I  have  and  my  beret, 

My  joyous  songs, 

My  sweetheart  and  my  chalet. 


The  Pipes  of  Pan  271 

When  I  was  in  the,  Pyrenees  last  summer,  after  a 
visit  to  Lourdes,  I  heard  this  self-same  song  echoing 
down  a  winding  pass,  blending  with  the  rushing  music 
of  the  mountain  stream  by  whose  side  I  was  mus 
ing. 

What  I  was  musing  about  then  is  what  I  have 
been  thinking  about  to-day — of  the  note  of  beauty 
that  transfigures  our  lives,  especially  here  in  this 
southern  reach  of  the  world.  The  way  of  Truth 
leads  to  God;  the  way  of  Goodness  leads  to  God, 
and  the  way  of  Beauty  leads  to  God,  too.  And  the 
great  Church,  knowing  this,  has  made  God's  temples 
beautiful  with  the  glory  of  arch  and  high-flung  roof, 
and  windows  rich  with  splendor,  and  spires  that 
search  the  stars,  and  deep-toned  bells  that  call.  And 
she  has  graced  His  praise  with  the  beauty  of  music 
and  sculpture,  and  swinging  censers,  and  altar  lights, 
and  processions,  that  bring  to  men's  hearts  the  stately 
beauty  of  God's  service.  As  my  wise  friend,  the 
Abbe  Rivoire,  used  to  say,  without  beauty,  goodness 
is  not  complete,  and  truth  is  not  true.  Yes,  the  way 
of  Beauty  leads  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  good 
God — oh,  not  carnal  beauty,  not  that,  but  the  spirit 
ual  beauty  of  which  all  physical  things,  be  they  the 
peaks  of  the  Pyrenees  or  the  pipes  of  Pan,  are  but 
poor  symbols. 

But  I  once  had  a  friend — he  was  an  artist,  a 
painter — who  said  that  he  preferred  what  was  beau 
tiful  to  what  was  true.  As  if  the  two  things  could 
rightly  be  separated ! 

"It  is  glorious,"  he  said  once,  "to  have  a  mission 


272  Abbe  Pierre 

in  life  so  beautiful  that  one  is  even  willing  to  lie 
for  it." 

He  said  that  when  he  painted  a  picture,  he  never 
painted  things  as  they  really  were,  but  as  they  ought 
to  be.  And  this  was  the  lie  he  was  talking  about 
and  which  he  thought  art  required  for  beauty's  sake ! 

"How  worthless  mere  facts  are!"  he  used  to  say. 
"It  is  the  imagination  that  builds  the  dream!" 

Truly,  how  stupid  he  was!  Could  he  not  see  that 
one  is  not  contorting  facts  into  a  lie  when  one  paints 
the  dream  that  they  suggest?  The  sunset  across  the 
hills  is  a  fact;  but  the  dream  it  suggests  is  a  fact, 
too — not  a  lie — nay,  it  is  the  very  truest  fact  of 
all,  for  it  gives  all  facts  a  glorious  meaning,  and 
makes  all  lesser  truth  worth  while!  My  friend  did 
not  falsify  nature,  as  he  said;  he  transfigured  it! 
And  in  this  transfiguration  of  nature,  he  was  feeling 
after  God,  though  he  knew  it  not. 

I  am  glad  that  my  own  life  is  touched  by  this  note 
of  beauty;  would  that  every  hour  of  it  had  been! 
They  used  to  tell  me  at  our  school  in  Paris  that  we 
Gascons  are  too  practical  to  care  for  beautiful  things. 
At  first  I  believed  it,  but  I  know  better  now.  Though 
we  Gascons  do  not  furnish  the  world  with  many  great 
artists  and  poets,  the  very  same  beauty  such  geniuses 
create  is  in  our  lives  instead.  It  is  not  put  in  the 
form  in  which  beauty  is  sold  in  the  market,  but  it  is 
there,  unobtrusive  as  you  please.  Marius  feels  that 
note  of  beauty  and  actually  sings  it  in  his  verses. 
One  can  hear  it  in  the  patois  of  the  songs  that  echo 
across  our  fields  and  vineyards.  There  is  Marinette, 
simple  and  crude,  perhaps — yet,  in  spite  of  the  fact 


The  Pipes  of  Pan  273 

that  she  has  very  little  land,  and  that  she  must  use 
it  to  raise  her  vegetables  for  the  market,  she  grows 
flowers  there,  too,  all  the  year  round,  for  beauty's 
sake — what  roses  those  were  she  gathered  for  Ger- 
maine  on  her  fete-day !  And  Germaine  herself — 
that  dainty  filet  lace  she  makes  in  her  garden  is  just 
as  much  a  poem  as  any  melody  a  poet  ever  sang  his 
heart  into !  And  Germaine's  mother — I  have  seen 
some  tapestry  of  her  own  fingers'  weave  that  made 
a  whole  room  charming  just  by  being  there ! 

The  other  day,  I  went  to  a  peasant's  house  out  in 
the  country  near  Demu,  where  I  stayed  to  dinner. 
They  were  not  wealthy  peasants  either,  and  the  hus 
band  wore  his  beret  at  table,  which  in  Paris  would 
be  considered  very  bad  manners  indeed!  But  what 
fine  embroideries  on  the  tables,  at  the  windows  and 
on  the  beds !  The  wife  had  embroidered  those  sheets 
while  watching  the  cattle  in  the  fields,  and  had  done 
the  embroidery  of  the  curtains  while  walking  to  Aig- 
nan  on  market-days.  This  very  noon  I  saw  some 
farm  machinery  going  by — a  huge  engine  of  some 
sort — with  a  bouquet  of  daisies  stuck  in  the  whistle ; 
and  the  driver  actually  had  a  rose  in  his  mouth — his 
hands  were  busy  with  driving  his  oxen. 

Of  all  things  beautiful  that  man  creates,  music  is 
best.  It  expresses  the  mysterious  depths  of  the  soul 
that  mere  words  never  fathom.  When  I  have  heard 
the  music  of  the  organ  surge  down  the  nave  of 
Notre  Dame,  the  infinite  has  caught  me  up  and  I 
seemed  to  be  close  to  things  to  which  death  alone 
opens  the  gates. 


274  Abbe  Pierre 

To-night,  being  the  night  of  the  I4th  of  July, 
we  had  some  great  music  in  the  public  Place  by  the 
village  band.  How  thrilling  to  hear  them!  They 
played  under  the  arcades  of  the  town  hall,  which  was 
hung  with  paper  lanterns  all  over  its  long  fagade; 
and  the  music  stormed  the  fronts  of  the  close-built 
houses  surrounding  the  Place,  flowed  up  the  side 
streets,  and  sent  its  harmonies  out  over  the  hills  be 
yond,  till  I  am  sure  that  they  heard  it  as  far  as  Mar- 
gouet.  Our  band  has  twenty  men  in  it,  and  not  one 
of  them  but  taught  himself  how  to  play;  the  note  of 
beauty  struggled  in  them  for  expression  and  our 
splendid  band  is  the  result.  Henri  plays  in  it,  the 
postmaster  plays  in  it,  the  mayor's  secretary  plays 
in  it — he  it  is  that  beats  the  drum — and  little  Paul 
Sarrade,  the  sabot-maker,  leads  it  exactly  as  he  has 
seen  the  leader  of  the  great  band  over  in  Tarbes  do 
it.  That  Paul  Sarrade  can  do  almost  anything  with 
music.  He  sometimes  sings  tenor  in  the  church,  and 
he  performs  upon  the  saxophone  and  the  clarinet 
equally  well.  And  if  there  is  music  in  wooden  shoes, 
well,  he  puts  music  into  them — I  don't  refer  to  the 
clatter,  but  to  the  carvings  he  puts  on  them  when  he 
has  a  mind  to  do  his  best. 

When  the  band  had  finished  playing  the  Marseil 
laise,  I  rambled  down  the  narrow  street  past  the  post 
office.  The  gendarmerie,  too,  was  brightly  illumi 
nated  with  paper  lanterns ;  but  I  found  the  most  beau 
tiful  decorations  of  all  at  the  edge  of  the  village,  in 
front  of  the  little  house  in  which  the  guardian  of  the 
forest  lives.  There  is  a  tree  across  the  road,  and 
he  had  transformed  this  tree  into  a  thing  of  wonder 


The  Pipes  of  Pan  275 

for  the  glory  of  France  and  the  day  she  celebrates. 
It  was  hung  with  gorgeous  lanterns,  and  not  only 
that — colored  glass  containers  were  suspended  from 
the  tree  with  oil  wicks  burning  inside  them.  No 
wonder  people  went  in  crowds  after  the  music  to  see 
what  the  guardian  of  the  forest  had  done  with  his 
tree,  on  which  it  was  appropriate  that  he  should  hang 
his  lanterns  rather  than  on  anything  else,  consider 
ing  his  office.  One  sees  that  the  note  of  beauty  is  in 
his  soul,  too. 

On  my  way  back,  while  I  was  crossing  the  Place 
toward  home,  I  passed  a  young  man  who  is  a  mem 
ber  of  the  band.  He  had  under  his  arm  a  horn, 
and  was  walking  along  with  all  the  importance  of 
one  who  can  thrill  men's  hearts  with  songs  that  never 
die. 

Yet  I  happen  to  know  that  he  cannot  play  a  note. 
He  is,  indeed,  a  member  of  the  band  as  I  say,  pays 
his  dues  regularly,  and  is  always  present  when  they 
play,  pretending  to  blow  his  alto  saxophone;  but  if 
one  should  get  quite  close  to  him  and  listen,  he  would 
perceive  that  no  sound  ever  comes  forth.  When  he 
first  joined  the  band,  they  stuffed  his  horn  with 
paper  because  he  was  always  out  of  tune.  Still,  he 
remained,  and  now  he  isi  taken  as  a  matter  of  course 
by  every  one,  although  everybody  knows  that  his 
contribution  to  the  music  is  a  blessed  silence. 

His  name  is  Soucaret.  He  is  a  baker's  helper  in 
Sabazan.  He  has  written  plays  that  were  never 
acted  and  never  will  be  acted.  But  the  note  of  beauty 
in  him  gropes  for  utterance,  though  in  vain. 

I  cannot  laugh  at  him.     Strange  to  say,  he  re- 


276  Abbe  Pierre 

minds  me  of  my  own  life.  Don't  we  all  fail?  Isn't 
it  all  a  matter  of  degree?  The  ineffable  beauty  that 
we  seek — did  the  pipes  of  Pan  ever  express  it,  has 
poet,  sculptor,  painter,  ever  found  it? 

But  oh,  the  glimpses  of  its  wonder  that  we  find 
by  day  and  night — they  strengthen  our  faith  in  God, 
and  change  life's  failure  into  that  exquisite  yearning 
which  is  brave  enough  to  mock  at  death,  and  to 
seek  its  vision  until  it  finds  it  at  some  far  corner  of 
the  everlasting  years ! 


Chapter  XXXIII:  Madame  Sance  Asks 
Advice 

MY  Aunt  Madeleine  has  very  strong  likes  and 
dislikes.     I  do  not  always  trust  her  dislikes 
— I  have  observed  that  women  tend  to  have 
aggressive  prejudices  without  sufficient  reasons;  but 
when  I  hear  my  Aunt  Madeleine  speaking  highly  of 
any  one,  I  know  the  praise  is  probably  deserved,  pos 
sibly  because  she  is  extremely  cautious  about  praising 
anybody  at  all. 

Now,  my  Aunt  Madeleine  insists  that  Madame 
Sance,  the  mother  of  Germaine,  is  the  finest  woman 
in  Aignan.  In  this,  she  does  not  except  even 
Madame  Lacoste,  who,  she  says,  talks  too  much. 
And  yet  if  there  is  any  woman  that  talks  as  much 
as  Madame  Lacoste,  it  is  my  Aunt  Madeleine  her 
self.  True,  she  does  not  talk  quite  so  fast,  but  that 
is  probably  a  matter  depending  largely  on  the  nature 
of  the  tongue  itself,  which  is  a  purely  physical  organ, 
the  speed  of  which  does  not  determine  how  much 
one  really  says  in  a  given  time,  any  more  than  the 
fastness  of  a  clock  can  be  measured  by  the  mere 
speed  of  its  pendulum — no,  you  have  to  consider  its 
length  as  well !  I  have  listened  to  them  both  and 
I  have  concluded  that,  while  Madame  Lacoste  uses 

277 


278  Abbe  Pierre 

more  words,  still,  give  them  both  an  hour,  the  tongue 
of  each  will  cover  about  the  same  amount  of  gossip 
and  accomplish  about  the  same  harm. 

But  one  cannot  get  my  Aunt  Madeleine  to  say  the 
slightest  word  against  Madame  Sance.  She  has 
known  her  for  forty  years,  and  still  admires  her. 

My  Aunt  Madeleine  appeared  in  the  doorway  of 
my  study  this  morning,  interrupting  me  as  I  was 
writing  an  important  letter  to  none  other  than  the 
Archbishop  at  Auch.  She  said  that  while  she  was 
watering  her  potted  geraniums  on  the  sidewalk,  Ma 
dame  Sance  had,  stopped  and  talked  with  her,  and 
had  finally  left  word  that  if  I  should  be  passing  by 
her  house  in  the  afternoon,  she  would  like  to  speak 
with  me. 

"She  has  something  on  her  mind.  I  think  I  know 
what  it  is;  you  must  go." 

But  nothing  more  could  I  get  out  of  my  Aunt 
Madeleine. 

Starting  from  the  church  at  the  head  of  my  street, 
it  is  not  far  out  the  Road  of  the  Madonna  to  Ma 
dame  Sance's  house.  It  was  toward  four  o'clock 
when  I  went  that  way. 

"My  Aunt  Madeleine  is  right  about  Madame 
Sance,"  I  said  to  myself.  "One  of  the  best  things 
that  one  can  say  of  our  village  is  that  Madame  Sance 
was  born  in  it." 

One  is  sure  to  see  Madame  Sance  in  the  village  on 
Monday  afternoons,  when  we  have  our  market.  She 
is  a  little  woman,  always  dressed  in  black;  up  to 
seven  or  eight  years  ago,  she  still  had  a  girlish  figure 
and  was  more  robust  than  she  is  to-day.  Now  she 


Madame  Sance  Asks  Advice    279 

is  bowed  a  little,  her  face  is  thinner,  and  sorrow  has 
left  its  traces  there;  her  hair  has  grown  from  brown 
to  gray,  and  her  eyes  are  getting  dim.  But  when  she 
smiles ! — it  is  the  same  wonderful  smile  of  her  girl 
hood,  which  makes  one  forget  that  there  are  such 
things  as  years  and  age  and  grief  and  loneliness! 
And  her  voice  is  like  her  smile — how  sweetly  she 
used  to  sing! — and  both  remind  one  somehow  of 
the  dainty,  fragrant,  jasmine  flowers  she  loves  so 
well. 

Madame  Sance  is  still  marvelously  energetic.  She 
has  not  lost  her  vivacious  temperament,  although 
lately  she  is  inclined  to  look  more  on  the  sad  side 
of  things.  In  her  heart  are  two  visions  that  com 
fort  each  other:  the  memory  of  her  husband,  and 
the  hope  that  lives  in  her  children. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  house  and  turned  in  at  the 
driveway,  nobody  was  in  sight,  although  I  half  ex 
pected  to  find  some  of  the  family  in  the  garden. 
The  wide-open  doors  of  the  ground  floor,  which 
serves  as  the  little  doctor's  garage,  showed  that  he 
had  gone  out  in  his  automobile,  no  doubt  to  visit 
patients  in  the  country.  Dick,  the  bird-dog,  lay 
sprawled  in  the  sun  by  the  chicken  yard,  a  favorite 
spot  of  his,  where  he  has  made  quite  a  collection  of 
bones,  which  he  will  let  no  one  molest.  Just  as  I 
had  mounted  the  steps  to  the  entrance,  outside  of 
which  several  chairs  were  invitingly  arranged, 
Madame  Sance  appeared,  carrying  her  fancy-work 
basket. 

"Good  afternoon,  Monsieur  1'Abbe !  I  was  just 
coming  out  here  to  sew.  I  hope  you  have  not  been 


280  Abbe  Pierre 

waiting.  Will  you  not  be  seated  here  where  it  is 
cool?  It  is  kind  of  you  to  come." 

It  was  only  after  a  while  that  Madame  Sance 
could  bring  herself  to  reveal  what  she  had  wished  to 
see  me  about.  I  never  hurry  people  in  such  matters, 
least  of  all  an  old  friend.  At  length,  though,  after 
we  had  been  silent  for  a  few  moments,  she  asked  in 
a  very  hesitating  way, 

"You  know  Monsieur  Ware  well,  do  you  not, 
Monsieur  1'Abbe?" 

Then,  that  was  it!  I  knew  it  would  come  some 
day.  And  thereupon  she  told  me  all  about  it.  How 
she  had  watched  the  tall  American's  increasing  in 
terest  in  her  daughter;  how  she  had  suspected  that 
it  meant  more  than  a  mere  passing  friendship,  espe 
cially  when  Monsieur  Ware  began  coming  almost 
every  day.  At  first  it  was  to  ask  for  Henri;  but 
now  she  knew  it  was  Germaine  he  most  wished  to 
see.  He  had  taken  no  pains  to  hide  it.  And  Ger 
maine  herself — well,  yesterday  she  had  been  sur 
prised  into  a  confused  admission  that  Monsieur 
Ware  meant  more  to  her  than  any  casual  acquaint 
ance.  Germaine  had  not  said  much,  but  her  looks 
had  betrayed  a  great  deal. 

"What  is  to  become  of  my  little  Maimaine! — I 
need  your  advice,  Monsieur  1'Abbe.  Will  Monsieur 
Ware  be  here  much  longer? — How  I  wish  he  would 
go  away!" 

It  was  difficult  for  me  to  say  anything.  None  of 
all  this  was  any  surprise  to  me.  Still,  I  wanted  to 
know  more.  So  I  took  the  liberty  of  asking  Madame 


Madame  Sance  Asks  Advice    281 

Sance  if  Monsieur  Ware  had  ever  spoken  to  her 
about  Germaine. 

"Not  directly,  Monsieur  FAbbe.  These  Ameri 
cans — perhaps  I  do  not  understand  them ;  but  he  has 
said  things  that  make  me  afraid.  Why  does  he  take 
care  to  tell  me  of  his  family,  and  of  his  prospects, 
and  of  the  school  in  America  where  he  is  going  to 
teach,  and  even  what  his  salary  will  be,  and  other 
personal  things  which  he  seems  to  want  me  to  know, 
as  if  I  had  a  right  to  know  them?  Ah,  Monsieur 
1'Abbe,  I  am  afraid!" 

"Have  you  never  thought  that  Germaine  might 
marry  some  day?" 

"But  not  a  foreigner!  Not  Monsieur  Ware!  It 
is  impossible — you  must  know  it  is  impossible! 
When  my  Angele  married  Maurice,  it  was  hard 
enough;  but  he  is  a  Frenchman,  one  of  us.  But  an 
American!  That  is  different!  Besides,  Germaine 
is  only  a  baby !  She  is  too  young  to  think  of  mar 
riage  yet. — No,  no,  no,  it  cannot  be !" 

After  a  little  I  said, 

"But  Monsieur  Ware — since  you  appeal  to  me — 
he  is  a  very  good  kind  of  American.  He  is  not  at 
all  like  the  Americans  we  sometimes  find  traveling 
in  our  country.  He  is  a  gentleman;  he  is  kind;  he 
is  an  idealist;  he  loves  beautiful  things;  he  is  sane 
and  good;  he  is  healthy  in  mind  and  body.  At  first 
I  did  not  like  him;  now  I  find  great  comfort  in  his 
friendship.  There  is  one  great  defect,  though,  one 
very  grievous  defect — he  is  outside  the  Church. 
That  is  the  serious  thing.  That  has  disturbed  me 
from  the  very  first.  That  is  bad.  That  he  is  a  for- 


282  Abbe  Pierre 

eigner  might  be  overlooked.  But  to  be  outside  the 
fold  of  the  Church — that  is  different." 

I  knew  what  this  meant  to  Madame  Sance,  too — 
she  who  is  so  devout,  who  goes  to  communion  often, 
and  to  vespers,  and  who  would  never  even  think  of 
missing  mass  on  Friday,  and  who  is  an  example  of 
piety  to  the  whole  village. 

So  I  was  distressed  over  the  whole  matter.  Yet  I 
tried  to  be  fair  in  speaking  of  David,  mentioning  the 
good  things  about  him,  hoping  that  if  the  worst 
happened  in  spite  of  everything,  this  would  recon 
cile  her  a  little. 

But  for  the  moment,  I  had  no  advice  to  give,  and 
told  her  so.  I  wanted  to  think  it  over.  And  so  I 
left  her,  promising  to  see  her  again  soon. 

As  I  went  through  the  gates,  I  glanced  back  along 
the  driveway  and  saw  a  girlish  figure  in  the  distance 
nearing  the  sunlit  barns  from  the  orchards,  a  basket 
on  her  arm.  It  was  Germaine. 

To  tell  the  truth,  now  that  I  am  here  alone,  I  am 
at  a  loss.  There  is  one  insuperable  objection  to  the 
suit  of  Monsieur  Ware :  he  is  a  Protestant.  I  wish 
I  could  think  of  other  objections.  I  do  not  want 
Germaine  to  marry  him.  Yet,  after  all,  forgetting 
his  religion,  who  will  ever  come  into  Germaine's 
life  so  good,  so  suited  to  her  in  so  many  ways — - 
that  is,  if  she  is  to  marry  at  all?  No  youth  in  this 
commune  can  equal  David;  that  I  know. 

If  only  he  were  within  the  Holy  Church!  There 
is  Germaine's  soul  to  think  of. 

As  I  was  walking  back  to  my  garden,  it  came  over 
me  how  desolate  our  little  village  would  be  without 


Madame  Sance  Asks  Advice     283 

Germaine.  I  could  see  that  her  mother's  underlying 
sorrow  was  the  thought  of  Germaine's  going  away 
to  far-off  America,  across  the  seas  those  thousands 
and  thousands  of  miles.  And  Madame  Sance  is  get 
ting  old.  It  would  be  cruel.  To  lose  Germaine  like 
that!  I 

I  wonder  what  David  really  thinks  of  the  unseen 
things  of  the  spirit.  I  have  never  heard  him  speak 
of  his  religion.  I  must  discover  this,  if  I  can  with 
out  offending  him. 


Chapter  XXXIV:  The  Church  on  the 
Hill 

IN  the  undulating  tapestry  that  is  our  landscape, 
the  church  towers,  crowning  the  hills,  are  the 
recurrent  figures,   lending   it   special   character 
and  distinction. 

All  kinds  of  towers  they  are,  but  mostly  square 
towers,  sturdy  and  strong,  like  those  of  a  rugged 
fortress.  Plain,  square  towers,  up  which  the  ivy 
creeps,  covering  with  masses  of  dark  green  the 
crumbling  stone,  working  its  way  into  all  the  crevices 
it  can  find;  enlarging  them,  loosening  them  with  fin 
gers  subtle  and  sure,  hastening  the  time  when  tower 
and  ivy  shall  tumble  back  to  the  earth  together. 

These  churches  on  our  hills !  The  hands  of  many 
generations  have  left  their  traces  on  nave  and  roof 
and  choir  and  belfry,  repairing  a  little  here,  a  little 
there,  as  the  centuries  have  rolled  by,  until  no  man 
can  surely  tell  which  stones  are  the  oldest,  although 
it  is  easy  to  see  which  are  the  newest.  The  weather 
has  done  its  part,  too — I  maintain  that  the  weather 
is  the  most  skillful  decorator  an  architect  can  find, 
and  that,  until  the  winds  and  suns  and  rains  have 
done  their  full  and  transforming  part,  the  most  beau 
tiful  building  ever  made  by  men  is  barren  and  un 
finished. 

284 


The  Church  on  the  Hill        285 

But  the  weather  has  done  its  splendid  best  with 
all  the  towers  that  one  sees  from  my  garden.  And 
if  you  but  climb  the  hills  and  enter  the  little  villages 
that  nestle  about  their  churches  as  if  for  protection, 
you  will  see  if  God's  good  fortresses,  whose  towers 
you  saw  against  the  sky,  are  not  far  more  than  so 
much  mere  stone  and  mortar!  If  a  Gascon  village 
can  be  said  to  have  a  heart,  a  soul,  it  is  to  be  found 
in  its  church.  I  know  a  little  village  on  its  hill  south 
of  here,  where  the  homes  hug  the  church  so  close 
that  one  can  get  to  the  gothic  portal  only  by  the 
tiniest  of  paths  between  the  houses,  which  seem  like 
happy  children  gathered  about  their  ancient  mother! 

I  like  to  enter  the  peaceful  silence  of  such  a  church, 
suddenly  to  find  myself  shut  away  from  the  world. 
There,  in  front  of  the  altar,  suspended  from  the 
roof,  is  the  sanctuary  lamp,  its  flame  forever  burn 
ing.  Like  the  love  of  God,  it  burns  there  night  and 
day.  The  sun  fades  daily  from  those  stained  win 
dows,  and  on  dark  nights  the  stars  cease  to  send  their 
tiny  shafts  of  light  through  them;  and  yet  this  lamp 
burns  on — like  the  love  of  God,  it  never  fails ! 

If  our  villages  have  souls,  they  have  voices,  too — 
the  sweet-toned  bells  that  speak  across  the  valleys 
every  day  from  these  ancient  towers.  How  often 
have  I  stood  in  my  garden  watching  the  sun  sink 
behind  the  far-away  hills;  then,  when  the  afterglow 
spread  itself  along  the  western  rim  of  the  world,  and 
the  tower  of  the  high-roofed  church  at  Sabazan  was 
vivid  against  a  curtain  of  old  rose  and  silver — then 
the  soft-toned  Angelus  drifted  across  the  valleys 
from  towers  near  and  far,  the  nearer  bells  loud  and 


286  Abbe  Pierre 

courageous,  and  some  of  them  faint  and  far  away, 
like  the  sigh  of  an  angel,  or  the  whisper  of  a  for 
gotten  hope.  Morning,  noon,  and  night,  the  bells 
talk  to  each  other  across  the  hills.  Sometimes  they 
toll  slowly  and  solemnly,  and  then  one  knows  that 
there  is  one  whose  soul  shall  never  hear  their  music 
any  more.  Sometimes  they  speak  fast,  and  in  as 
merry  tones  as  a  bell  can  have,  when  the  ringer 
strikes  it  rapidly  with  a  little  rock  in  his  hand;  it  is 
a  christening,  and  new  ears  shall  learn  to  listen  for 
and  love  these  voices  from  our  towers.  And  some 
times  when  storm-clouds  bank  themselves  dark  and 
terrible  against  the  sky,  and  the  lightning  begins  to 
flash,  and  the  hail  threatens,  one  hearkens  for  the 
valorous  clangor  of  the  bells  that  call  to  God  to  pro 
tect  His  children  and  their  harvests  from  the  deso 
lating  armies  of  the  air.  Then  it  is,  that,  as  the 
clamor  of  the  bells  mingles  with  the  crash  of  thunder 
and  the  howling  of  winds,  the  priest  is  before  the 
altar  praying  for  his  people.  But  be  they  bells  of 
alarm,  or  joy,  or  sadness,  or  the  peaceful  bells  that 
daily  call  to  mass,  they  come  to  mean  something 
more  than  the  mere  sounds  of  earth;  heaven  speaks 
through  them,  and  their  music  seems  to  give  the  soul 
a  glimpse  through  spiritual  gates. 

Our  church  in  Aignan  is  not  at  all  beautiful  or 
graceful  at  first  sight;  but,  truly,  there  is  no  church 
just  like  it  anywhere  in  the  world !  From  one  side, 
it  looks  like  one  church,  from  another  side  it  looks 
like  another  church,  and  so  on  for  all  four  sides. 
Changeful  history  has  built  itself  into  those  rough, 
time-worn  stones  so  many  times  and  in  so  many  cir- 


The  Church  on  the  Hill       287 

cumstances  that  art  long  ago  succumbed  in  despair. 
It  is  like  an  old  warrior,  wounded  and  crippled  from 
many  battles,  but  the  more  interesting  for  all  that, 
and  unconquerable  still.  High  up  under  the  eaves 
are  traces  of  a  line  of  battlements,  and  a  place  where 
the  village  wall  of  defense  once  joined.  But  the 
tower !  That  is  the  thing  that  spells  Aignan  to  those 
who  look  from  the  surrounding  valleys.  Heavy  and 
square,  flanked  by  a  thick  buttress,  surmounted  by  a 
bulbous  dome,  with  a  slender  cupola  on  top — there 
is  only  one  other  like  it  in  all  Gascony,  that  at  the 
town  of  Eauze,  across  the  hills  to  the  north.  All 
these  years,  when  I  have  been  away  from  my  native 
village,  the  first  thing  that  came  to  my  mind  when  I 
thought  of  it — oh,  so  often! — was  this  tower  rising 
in  its  midst.  And  to  show  how  capricious  memory 
is,  dwelling  even  on  the  homely  things,  the  next  thing 
I  was  quite  likely  to  picture  was  the  narrow  Street 
of  the  Balustrade,  which  leads  up  to  the  church,  with 
somebody's  washing  ever  hung  up  to  dry  on  the  low, 
wrought-iron  fence  that  gives  the  street  its  name. 

Inside  our  church,  we  have  a  treasure.  It  came 
about  thus. 

It  is  said  that  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years 
ago,  a  peasant  was  plowing  a  field  somewhat  beyond 
where  Germaine's  garden  is.  Suddenly,  the  oxen 
stopped  and  would  not  go  on  any  farther;  some  say 
they  knelt  down.  Taking  it  as  an  omen,  the  peasant, 
with  several  others,  procured  shovels  and  dug  into 
the  earth,  and  behold!  they  found  a  beautiful  statue 
of  the  Virgin,  in  an  almost  perfect  state  of  preserva- 


288  Abbe  Pierre 

tion !  It  is  now  in  our  church,  in  the  Chapel  of  the 
Holy  Virgin. 

All  the  roads  in  Gascony  really  lead  to  the 
churches  on  the  hills.  One  might  claim  that  they 
lead  to  the  villages,  just  as  much  as  to  the  churches; 
but  if  that  is  so,  of  what  meaning  are  the  crosses  all 
along  the  roadsides,  reminding  the  traveler  of  his 
debt  to  God?  Crosses  of  many  kinds:  immense, 
rough-hewed  wooden  crosses,  like  the  actual  cross  on 
which  Our  Savior  was  crucified;  iron  crosses  of  all 
sizes,  some  with  the.  Virgin  wrought  in  the  center, 
some  with  cherubs  at  the  base,  some  inwrought  with 
the  sad  implements  of  the  crucifixion — the  hammer, 
the  spear,  the  sponge — and  many  with  the  cock  at 
the  very  top.  David  asked  me  the  other  day  why 
the  image  of  the  cock  surmounts  our  wayside  crosses 
and  the  steeples  of  our  churches,  and  I  quoted  from 
Monsieur  Pontier's  book  where  it  says  that  this  cock, 
which  is  the  image  of  the  very  cock  that  crowed  at 
the  passion,  signifies  the  conscience  which  speaks  to 
us  and  arouses  us  when  we  have  offended  God. 

Then,  there  are  the  life-size  images  of  the  Holy 
Virgin,  golden-crowned.  Ours  is  just  beyond  Mari- 
nette's  house,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  Just 
now,  lilies  are  in  bloom  in  the  ground  before  her, 
and  always  an  offering  of  flowers  is  at  her  feet. 

Since  he  came,  David  has  watched  every  proces 
sion  that  has  gone  to  this  place  from  the  church,  in 
cluding  the  one  we  had  on  Corpus  Christi  Sunday, 
when  the  roads  were  strewn  with  rose-petals  and 
ferns,  and  the  fronts  of  the  houses  were  hung  with 
sheets  richly  decorated  with  flowers  and  branches, 


The  Church  on  the  Hill       289 

and  a  chorus  of  girls  sang  as  they  passed  along,  and 
the  old  priest  walked  under  the  golden  canopy  with 
the  Host,  and  little  girls,  dressed  in  white,  carried 
baskets  containing  more  rose-petals  and  leaves  to 
strew  before  the  wayside  altars.  David  is  not  used 
to  such  things  in  his  country.  Why,  every  Sunday 
morning  before  mass,  we  have  a  procession  through 
our  streets!  In  some  towns,  even  in  France,  the 
authorities  do  not  allow  them  any  more;  there  was 
a  great  disturbance  over  the  Corpus  Christ!  proces 
sion  in  Montauban  this  year. 

My  conversation  with  Madame  Sance  was  three 
days  ago.  It  was  only  to-day,  when  David  came  to 
my  garden,  that  I  found  a  chance  to  talk  with  him 
about  religion,  as  Madame  Sance  had  charged  me  to 
do  just  as  I  was  leaving  her.  We  had  finished  the 
French  lesson,  and  were  sitting  out  under  the  fig  tree. 
To  my  immense  surprise  I  soon  discovered  that 
David  is  not  a  Protestant  at  all. 

"No,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  I  am  neither  a  Prot 
estant,  nor  am  I  a  Catholic.  Not  that  I  am  irre 
ligious.  Only,  I  am  afraid  no  church  would  admit 
me.  There  is  always  something  in  every  church's 
creed  I  cannot  believe." 

"But  that  college  in  America  where  you  go  to  be 
a  professor,  is  it  not  Protestant?" 

"No,  it  is  not  Protestant;  it  is  supported  by  the 
State;  many  Catholic  students  go  there,  too." 

I  found  out  many  astonishing  things  about  David. 
Although  he  is  not  a  Catholic,  he  believes  in  God, 
the  soul,  and  immortality;  only,  he  has  reasoned 
these  things  all  out  for  himself.  He  knows  St. 


290  Abbe  Pierre 

Thomas  d'Aquin  very  well,  and  respects  his  philoso 
phy  very  highly.  And  he  spoke  of  the  beauty  of 
many  of  the  teachings  of  the  Holy  Church.  In 
deed,  he  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  would  as  soon 
belong  to  the  Catholic  Church  as  to  any  church, 
only  he  felt  he  could  belong  to  none. 

"It  is  my  reason,  Monsieur  1'Abbe.  I  have  to 
reason  everything  out  before  I  can  believe." 

I  told  him  of  the  dangers  of  free-thinking  in  spirit 
ual  things,  of  the  extreme  peril  of  a  man  supposing 
that  he  can  make  his  own  religion  out  of  his  poor 
finite  reason. 

"Most  men,"  I  said,  "when  they  undertake  to 
reason  about  the  great  truths  of  the  Church,  think 
only  just  far  enough  to  doubt  them  and  to  destroy 
their  faith  in  them.  That  is  a  pity." 

"But,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,"  David  remonstrated, 
"that  is  not  the  way  it  is  with  me.  It  may  be  hard 
to  reason  one's  way  into  religion,  but  it  can  be  done. 
Some  men  believe  first  in  order  to  understand,  as 
your  St.  Augustine  advises;  but  I  am  one  of  those 
who  must  understand  first  in  order  to  believe.  And 
most  of  the  great  truths  of  religion  I  believe  in  now, 
although  my  reason  led  me  to  doubt  them  all  once. 
lYou  and  I  are  not  so  far  apart,  Monsieur  1'Abbe, 
even  though  you  are  in  the  Church  and  I  am  outside 
of  it!" 

I  could  not  help  asking  David  just  why  he  was 
not  a  Catholic  then. 

"You  have  too  many  superstitions,  or  what  I  call 
superstitions;  and  your  miracles,  beautiful  as  some 


The  Church  on  the  Hill        291 

of  them  are,  I  cannot  accept,  although  I  have  noth 
ing  to  say  against  those  who  can  believe  in  them. 
Let  me  show  you  what  I  mean.  When  my  sister  and 
I  were  coming  down  here  from  Paris,  we  stopped  a 
few  days  at  Poitiers.  There  is  a  very  old  church 
there,  the  church  of  St.  Radegonde,  with  its  curious 
clock  tower.  Well,  in  the  middle  of  the  crypt  is  the 
tomb  of  the  Saint  herself.  The  walls  are  covered 
with  crutches  of  those  said  to  be  cured  by  petitions 
to  the  Saint.  Why,  on  those  walls  are  hung  letters 
written  to  her  by  people  in  distress.  There  was  one 
like  this:  'Dear  St.  Radegonde,  please  have  my  hus 
band  cured  from  his  sickness/  Then,  to  the  right 
of  the  nave,  there  is>  the  Chapelle  du  Pas-de-Dieu, 
and  in  this  chapel  a  stone  in  which  is  something  that 
looks  like  a  footprint  about  fifteen  inches  long.  It 
is  said  to  be  the  footprint  of  Christ,  and  was  brought 
from  the  convent  of  the  Saint,  where  Christ  appeared 
to  her.  This  precious  stone  is  protected  by  iron  bars. 
There  is  no  use  talking,  Monsieur  TAbbe,  I  cannot 
believe  in  such  things.  Surely,  it  is  absurd." 

David  confuses  such  matters  as  these  with  the 
great  verities  of  the  Church !  Who  knows?  It  may 
be  that  there  is  hope  for  my  young  friend  if  I  can 
but  explain  to  him  things  I  am  certain  he  does  not 
now  understand.  I  feel  this  all  the  more  when  I 
remember  that  after  a  short  silence  he  remarked 
smilingly, 

"After  all,  God's  footprints  are  to  be  found  every 
where!" 

I  could  not  have  said  that  better  myself. 


292  Abbe  Pierre 

David  has  told  me  of  how  the  villages  in  America, 
even  the  small  ones,  have  many  churches,  all  differ 
ing  in  their  beliefs.  That  must  be  a  very  bad  thing. 
There  can  be  only  one  true  Church,  as  there  can  be 
only  one  true  religion.  Here  in  France,  it  is  so  much 
better.  One  Church,  the  true  Church,  that  unites  the 
souls  of  the  village  in  one  worship !  In  other  things, 
the  people  who  live  here  may  be  divided;  but  God 
unites  them  all  as  children  of  the  same  family,  with 
the  same  eternal  hope  and  the  same  everlasting  faith. 

At  least,  that  is  the  ideal.  Yet  what  indifference 
there  is,  after  all,  even  in  my  village ! 

I  communicated  some  of  these  thoughts  to  David. 
He  finally  said, 

"In  one  thing  I  agree  with  you;  the  Church  gives 
these  peasants  of  yours  a  far  better  religion  than 
they  could  ever  think  out  for  themselves.  Perhaps 
in  your  country  it  is  best  as  it  is." 

In  my  country?  It  is  best  in  any  country!  The 
great  Church  is  for  all  times  and  places.  O  Holy 
Church  of  the  blessed  God!  We  learn  to  come  to 
Thee  as  to  the  Mother  of  all  souls  that  seek  Thy 
rest !  Thy  infinite  heart  shields  us  from  every  sor 
row,  and  teaches  us  the  mysteries  that  reason  never 
finds,  and  that  faith  alone  can  fathom.  Embattled 
by  the  centuries,  Thou  hast  never  known  defeat,  and 
Thy  every  triumph  marks  the  progress  of  the  spirit 
through  the  everlasting  years.  Thy  splendid  towers 
are  fortresses  that  guard  against  all  evil;  they  point 
to  that  unseen  world  to  which  the  blessed  sacraments 
of  death  lead  all  those  who  are  steadfast  in  Thy 
faith.  By  Thee,  all  that  is  of  worth  that  man 


The  Church  on  the  Hill        293 

achieves  becomes  transfigured  toward  God's  service; 
in  Thee,  the  struggles  of  heart-weary  ages  find  their 
goal  at  last;  for  through  Thee,  and  Thee  alone,  are 
to  be  reached  all  the  glories  that  we  vainly  seek  on 
earth  I 


Chapter  XXXV:  I  Seek  a  Parish 

TO-DAY,  I  got  out  a  long  ladder  and  after 
some  trouble  put  it  up  against  the  front  of  my 
garden-house,  so  that  the  top  of  it  just  reached 
the  grapevine  that  grows  high  over  the  door.  My 
garden-house  faces  south;  so  day  in  and  day  out  the 
warm  sun  has  been  working  on  the  clusters  of  grapes 
hanging  up  there  just  below  the  eaves.  Their  little 
green  jackets  have  steadily  swelled  themselves  out 
during  these  long  summer  days,  turning  first  to  a 
dull,  reddish  brown,  and  then,  slowly,  to  the  deepest 
of  purples.  When  I  reached  the  top  of  the  ladder, 
I  plucked  several  of  the  ripest. 

I  had  just  put  one  of  them  in  my  mouth1  when  I 
heard  a  sudden  call  from  very  near  at  hand;  in  truth, 
I  nearly  lost  my  balance.  However,  I  had  presence 
of  mind  enough  to  grasp  the  ladder  with  both  hands ; 
and  then  I  cautiously  turned  about  and  looked  down. 
There  was  David  laughing  a  hearty  "Bonjourf  up 
to  me  and  asking  me  to  throw  down  some  of  th» 
grapes  to  him. 

"These  are  my  first  Gascon  grapes,"  he  said,  as 
he  ate  them. 

I  explained  to  him  that  grapes  as  favorably  ex- 
294 


I  Seek  a  Parish  295 

posed  to  the  sun  as  these  are  get  ripe  much  sooner 
than  those  in  the  vineyards.  Last  year  I  did  not 
have  to  wait  until  the  last  of  July,  as  I  have  had  to 
this  time ;  no,  last  year,  I  remember,  some  of  them 
were  good  enough  to1  eat  as  early  as  July  17;  but 
that  was  unusual. 

David  held  the  ladder  steady  while  I  climbed 
down.  He  was  just  taking  a  walk  down  the  road, 
he  said,  and,  catching  sight  of  me,  had  turned  in. 
I  am  always  glad  to  see  him,  but  at  this  particular 
time  I  would  have  preferred  he  had  not  come,  since 
I  had  plans  of  my  own  for  the  morning.  I  had  in 
mind  to  walk  to  Sabazan  on  a  very  important  er 
rand,  and  wanted  to  go  alone. 

Still,  I  wished  some  one  to  talk  to,  for  I  was  about 
to  take  a  serious  step— so  serious,  indeed,  that  it 
will  mean  more  or  less  of  a  turning  point  in  my  life. 
If  Germaine's  father  were  alive,  I  would  have  con 
fided  in  him  weeks  ago  and  sought  his  sound  advice. 

I  sometimes  feel  very  lonely  and  apart.  I  know 
so  many  people,  and  yet  there  are  so  very  few  with 
whom  I  would  care  toi  talk  about  the  matters  that 
concern  me  most.  Although  I  have  known  David 
for  so  short  a  time,  I  actually  find  myself  telling  him 
things  that  usually  I  would  not  think  of  telling  any 
body. 

It  was  for  this  reason  that  at  length  I  proposed 
to  David  that  he  walk  to  Sabazan  with  me. 

Just  as  we  two  were  leaving  my  garden  and  I  was 
locking  the  gate,  my  neighbor  across  the  road — the 
one  I  often  hear  singing — was  plowing  in  his  vine 
yard  and  shouting  lustily  at  his  oxen. 


296  Abbe  Pierre 

"Mascaret!  Ha!  —  Prouf  —  Millet!  Arre! 
Arre — Douccmentf" 

And  then,  instead  of  getting  a  chance  to  tell  David 
what  was  on  my  mind,  I  had  to  answer  a  score  of 
questions  about  our  oxen.  I  had  to  explain  to  him 
how4  they  are  trained  in  pairs  from  the  time  when 
they  are  young;  how  they  always  keep  on  the  same 
side  of  each  other;  and  how,  if  one  dies,  the  other  is 
at  a  loss  and  ceases  to  eat,  and  sometimes  pines 
away;  how  one  is  usually  named  Mascaret,  and  the 
other  Millet. 

uOr  sometimes  Lauret  and  Mulct,"  I  added, 
"which  means  'little  mule/  " 

"But  why  don't  you  use  horses,  as  we  do  in  Amer 
ica?" 

I  told  him  it  was  because  of  the  heavy,  clay  soil. 
We  must  plow  deeply  and  slowly.  Horses  would 
be  too  light  and  fast. 

If  David  keeps  on  asking  his  innumerable  ques 
tions,  he  will  soon  know  as  much  about  Gascony  as 
I  do.  I  wonder  if  all  Americans  are  as  curious  about 
the  reasons  of  things.  I  frequently  have  to  think  up 
reasons  for  our  commonest  customs — reasons  that  I 
become  doubtful  of  myself,  when  I  get  to  thinking 
them  over! 

We  took  the  short  way  to  Sabazan,  a  narrow, 
winding  road,  going  uphill  and  down,  somewhat  too 
rough  for  carts,  so  that  we  had  it  to  ourselves.  It 
is  a  picturesque  road,  bordered  with  high  shrubbery 
and  trees  on  both  sides,  so  that  much  of  the  time  we 
were  in  the  shade.  Every  little  while,  as  we  reached 
an  eminence,  we  could  get  a  glimpse  of  the  heavy, 


/  Seek  a  Parish  297 

square  tower  of  the  Sabazan  church  peeping  over  the 
fields. 

It  was  when  we  were  about  half  way  that  I  finally 
mentioned  to  David  the  thing  I  had  told  nobody  else 
but  my  old  associate,  the  Abbe  Rivoire,  to  whom  I 
wrote  only  yesterday;  it  was  this:  I  had  decided, 
after  a  great  deal  of  thought,  to  look  for  a  place  as 
cure  of  some  parish. 

There,  it  was  out! 

"It  is  not  to  be  repeated  to  anybody  just  now,"  I 
said.  "But  since  I  am  teaching  no  longer,  and  have 
come  back  home  here  to  spend  the  remainder  of  my 
days,  I  have  been  thinking  that  I  can  make  better  use 
of  them  than  by  merely  studying  books  and  writing 
down  thoughts  that  will  never  do  a  single  person 
any  good  but  myself.  When  I  came  back  to  Aignan 
this  time,  I  was  very  tired,  and  I  thought  it  was  time 
for  me  to  rest.  But  now  I  begin  to  be  anxious  for 
some  labor  that  is  of  service  to  God  and  my  fellow 
creatures.  And  what  better  way  to  such  service  than 
to  be  cure  in  one  of  the  villages  near  my  native  place 
— near  enough,  I  am  hoping,  that  I  may  come  as 
often  as  I  like  to  see  my  old  father  and  the  people 
and  things  that  have  ever  been  so  close  to  my  life 
that  they  are  a  part  of  me!" 

I  am  not  so  old  yet.  I  am  only  sixty-five.  Per 
haps  there  is  still  much  worth  while  for  me  to  do 
before  I  die. 

"What  parish  is  there  about  here,  Monsieur 
TAbbe?  Is  there  a  vacancy?" 

I   explained  to   David  that  there  is  no  vacancy 


298  Abbe  Pierre 

now,  but  that  I  had  written  to  the  Archbishop  at 
Auch  and  that  yesterday  I  had  an  answer. 

"I  had  thought  of  Fusterouau,"  I  went  on.  "That 
is  not  very  far  away;  and  then,  it  has  other  advan 
tages.  The  church  is  close  to  the  railroad  station, 
which  makes  it  easier  to  go  to  Lourdes,  or,  perhaps 
to  Paris  once  in  a  long  while. " 

David  remembered  Fusterouau  well,  because  he 
had  first  come  to  Aignan  that  way.  He  added  that 
it  was  not  much  of  a  village. 

That  is  true;  but  if  all  goes  well,  I  shall  not  go 
to  Fusterouau  after  all.  For  the  Archbishop's  let 
ter  gives  me  a  hope  far  beyond  any  I  dared  to  enter 
tain.  I  did  not  even  venture  to  hope  for  the  parish 
of  Sabazan — Sabazan,  whose  church  I  see  so  clearly 
from  my  garden;  whose  tower  is  forever  associated 
in  my  mind  with  the  sunsets  against  whose  glory  it 
works  its  daily  miracle;  the  tower  that  has  made  me 
feel  the  beauty  of  these  towers  on  our  hills  as  no 
other  has — why,  I  made  that  square  window  in  my 
little  pavilion  in  the  garden  just  so  that  I  could  look 
out  across  the  valleys  to  Sabazan,  and  dream  of  Sa 
bazan  !  And  now  the  Archbishop  suggests  Sabazan ! 
Although  nobody  knows  it,  the  young  cure  there  is 
going  to  be  changed.  Well,  the  Archbishop  has  al 
ways  been  friendly  to  me.  We  went  to  the  same 
seminary.  Even  then,  I  am  sure,  I  talked  to  him  of 
Sabazan.  Perhaps  he  remembers  it! 

It  is  possible  that  if  David  had  known  enough 
about  the  history  of  France,  I  might  have  reminded 
him  of  what  they  once  called  certain  abbes  that 
sought  attractive  preferments  several  hundreds  of 


I  Seek  a  Parish  299 

years  ago,  the  abbes  de  Sainte  Esperance — the  abbes 
of  St.  Hope,  he  would  say  in  English.  But  truly,  no 
one  can  rightly  maintain  that  I  am  like  them,  for 
they  sought  a  sinecure  and  an  easy  life,  while  I  seek 
only  a  chance  to  serve  God  in  the  best  way  I  can,  even 
though  it  means  something  of  labor  and  hardship. 

When  at  last  we  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  and 
entered  the  village,  with  its  winding,  irregular 
streets,  David  was  surprised  that  everybody  we 
passed  seemed  to  be  acquainted  with  me  and  greeted 
me  cordially.  David  was  struck,  too,  with  the  peace 
and  charm  of  the  place — it  is  very  small;  there  are 
not  more  than  two  hundred  souls  in  the  entire  com 
mune. 

We  made  our  way  toward  the  church,  in  the  cen 
ter  of  things.  Near  the  church  portal  is  a  huge  cross 
imade  of  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  very  rough,  its  knots 
protruding,  on  which  hangs  the  image  of  the  Divine 
Redeemer. 

If  I  had  been  alone,  I  would  have  entered  the 
church  and  remained  awhile,  thinking  the  thoughts 
that  come  to  one  only  in  God's  sanctuary.  Instead, 
we  kept  on  past  the  tiny  cemetery  in  front  of  the 
great  tower  and  skirted  the  pond  that  follows  the 
road  in  a  crescent — it  may  have  been  the  moat  of 
an  ancient  chateau  once — and  took  our  way  toward 
the  cure's  house,  which  is  down  the  hill  on  the  other 
side  of  the  village. 

Now,  this  is  just  what  I  had  come  to  Sabazan  for, 
— to  see  the  priest's  house  and  garden,  even  though 
I  had  seen  it  so  many  times  before.  For  when  one 
looks  at  a  place,  thinking  of  it  for  the  first  time  as 


3OO  Abbe  Pierre 

the  one  spot  in  the  world  where  he  is  to  spend  the 
rest  of  his  days — where  he  is  to  live  and  work,  and 
at  last  to  die — he  looks  at  it  with  new  and  apprais 
ing  eyes. 

It  is  charming — the  little  two-storied  house,  set 
back  from  the  road,  with  a  lawn  and  flower  garden 
sloping  down  from  the  front  of  it.  As  we  entered 
the  iron  gates,  painted  a  dull  claret  color,  we  saw 
the  priest's  cart  under  a  tree.  He  was  probably 
home  then.  When  we  sounded  the  big,  iron  knocker, 
the  tall  form  of  the  Abbe  Bousquet  almost  immedi 
ately  appeared. 

The  Abbe  Bousquet  is  well-built  and  vigorous;  an 
out-of-doors  man,  who  loves  to  hunt  and  is  very  skill 
ful  with  the  partridge  and  quails.  He  is  young,  be 
ing  only  thirty-five.  He  is  very  dark,  having  black, 
crisping  hair  and  an  olive  complexion.  His  face  is 
unusually  intelligent.  His  voice  is  rich  and  deep,  and 
his  smile  is  worth  seeing;  indeed,  that  frank,  honest 
smile  of  his  made  David  like  him  at  once. 

They  say  that  one  can  read  the  soul  of  a  man  by 
the  surroundings  he  makes  for  himself.  One  could 
tell  much  about  the  soul  of  the  Abbe  Bousquet  by 
looking  at  the  room  at  the  back  of  the  house  where 
he  reads  and  studies.  It  is  as  simple  and  direct  as 
he  is.  The  floor  is  of  red  stone,  and  the  furniture  is 
plain,  most  of  it  home-made — I  am  sure  that  the 
Abbe  Bousquet  made  the  bookcases  himself.  The 
table  where  he  writes  is  of  the  commonest  sort,  made 
of  pine  and  unpainted,  such  as  people  use  in  kitchens. 
There  is  a  brass  candelabra  on  it. 

But  there  is  one  very  unusual  thing  about  this 


I  Seek  a  Parish  301 

room,  which  takes  away  from  its  bareness,  contra 
dicts  its  simplicity,  and  reveals  another  side  of  the 
soul  of  the  Abbe  Bousquet. 

A  priest's  study  with  an  organ  in  it  is  not  very 
common;  and  one  with  a  piano  in  it  is  still  rarer;  but 
the  Abbe  Bousquet  actually  has  both  in  his — an  or 
gan  with  eight  stops  on  one  side  of  the  room,  and  a 
piano  on  the  other!  And  the  wonder  of  it  is  he 
can  play  both  well.  I  have  heard  that  he  used  to  be 
the  organist  at  the  seminary  in  Auch.  Every  Thurs 
day  in  the  year,  without  fail,  the  Abbe  Prechac  drives 
over  from  Margouet  in  his  cart;  and  these  two  spend 
the  long  afternoon  playing  duets  together. 

I  knew  that  David  would  like  to  hear  the  Abbe 
Bousquet  play,  so  I  asked  him;  at  which  his  face  lit 
up  with  pleasure,  for  the  Abbe  Bousquet  would 
rather  play  music  than  eat,  holding  rightly  that  music 
is  not  only  the  food  of  the  soul,  but  that  it  so  affects 
the  body  that  it  suffices  to  take  away  hunger.  Seat 
ing  himself  at  the  organ,  he  played  several  of  the 
preludes  of  Bach;  and  then,  opening  the  piano,  he 
gave  us  two  of  his  favorite  Haydn  sonatas.  How 
the  little  room  thrilled  with  the  music  his  soul  put 
into  the  sweet-toned  keys!  I  love  the  music  of 
nature  and  the  music  of  man.  I  have  listened  to  the 
whisper  of  myriads  of  leaves  on  a  cloudy  day,  when 
the  wind  began  to  rise;  once,  when  I  was  in  the 
Pyrenees,  I  heard  the  long  roll  of  the  full-throated 
thunder  shouting  tumultuously  from  the  deeps  and 
crashing  down  from  imperious  heights;  and  I  have 
heard  the  Abbe  Bousquet  play  at  his  best  this  very 
day.  And  I  do  not  know  which  affects  me  the  more. 


3O2  Abbe  Pierre 

And  while  my  friend  played,  I  looked  out  through 
the  wide-open  door  at  the  sunshine  flooding  the  quiet 
vineyard  and  the  rich  field  beyond.  It  is  thus  that 
the  music  of  sight  and  sound  sometimes  blend  into 
one. 

On  the  road  home,  I  was  descanting  to  David  upon 
the  innocent  pleasures  that  the  life  of  a  priest  like 
the  Abbe  Bousquet  may  hold;  pleasures  that  do  not 
corrode,  as  do  the  pleasures  of  worldly  men,  but 
rather,  strengthen  and  ennoble. 

But  David  was  not  attending  to  me.  He  evidently 
had  something  else  on  his  mind.  After  awhile  he 
cleared  his  throat  and  said, 

"I  want  your  help,  Monsieur  1'Abbe.  I  need  your 
friendship  and  your  help  very  badly — that  is  why 
I  came  to  you  this  morning;  to  see  if  you  would  do 
something  very  important  for  me." 

uWhat  is  it?"  I  asked,  as  unconcernedly  as  I 
could. 

"It  is  very  serious.  It  affects  my  whole  life.  I 
may  as  well  tell  it  all  to  you,  just  as  it  is!" 

But,  strange  to  say,  David  all  at  once  became  si 
lent  and  could  say  nothing  further,  until  we  came  to 
the  turn  of  the  road  where  the  steeple  of  our  Aignan 
church  came  into  sight  through  the  trees.  Then  he 
went  on  with  considerable  effort, 

"You  know  how  I  have  learned  to  love  your  coun 
try,  Monsieur  1'Abbe.  But  I  have  found  something 
here  that  means  infinitely  more  to  me.  You  must 
have  seen  what  I  mean;  you  must  have  guessed  it 
weeks  ago. — They  tell  me  you  have  known  Germaine 
from  the  time  when  she  was  a  little  child." 


I  Seek  a  Parish  303 

Suddenly,  David  stopped  again.  I  put  my  hand 
gently  on  his  shoulder — I  had  to  reach  up  a  little  to 
do  that — and  said  to  him, 

"How  can  I  help  you,  David  ?" 

"I  have  no  friends  here — no  one  that  really  knows 
me — except  you. — Will  you  speak  favorably  of  me 
to  Madame  Sance?  That  is  what  I  wanted  to  ask 
you.  Perhaps  I  am  asking  too  much.  She  does  not 
know  what  to  say  to  me.  I  think  she  is  very  un 
happy.  The  other  day  when  I  spoke  to  her  of  my 
wish  to  marry  Germaine,  she  burst  into  tears  and 
had  to  leave  me.  Of  course,  she  does  not  wish  Ger 
maine  to  go  from  her.  I  can  understand  that.  But 
she  trusts  you,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  more  than  any 
body  else.  Your  word  has  great  weight  with  her. 
I  suppose,  though,  it  is  asking  too  much  of  you !" 

We  were  climbing  the  hill  at  the  top  of  which  is 
our  village. 

"And  what  about  Germaine  herself,  David?" 

"If  it  depended  only  upon  Germaine  and  me,  all 
would  be  well,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  and  we  two  would 
be  the  happiest  people  in  Gascony!" 

I  reached  over  by  the  side  of  the  road  and  idly 
plucked  a  few  slender  stems  of  brins  d' 'amour — 
"bits  of  love" — with  their  exquisitely  dainty  little 
flowers.  I  handed  them  to  David,  saying, 

"These  were  Germaine's  favorite  wild-flowers 
when  she  was  a  little  girl.  Her  soul  is  like  them — 
exquisite,  and  delicate,  and  fine." 

We  said  nothing  more  until  we  arrived  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  Place,  in  front  of  the  old  arcades.  There 
we  stopped  before  parting,  and  David  asked, 


304  Abbe  Pierre 

"Then  you  will  speak  to  Madame  Sance  for  me?" 
I  could  not  answer.    All  I  could  say  after  awhile 
was, 

"Come  to  my  garden  to-morrow." 


Chapter  XXXVI:  Have  Pity,  O  God! 

I  COULD  not  write  for  these  last  ten  days.     I 
could  not,  I  could  not  1 
Marius  Fontan  is  dead. 

By  his  own  hand. 

The  shutters  of  his  room  were  closed,  save  where 
a  narrow  shaft  of  morning  sun  fell  on  him  where  he 
hung. 

It  touched  his  face  when  they  laid  him  on  the  bed. 

There  was  a  half  loaf  of  bread  on  the  chest  of 
drawers,  brought  him  the  day  before.  It  was  un 
touched. 

Some  of  his  manuscripts  lay  on  the  table. 

The  last  time  I  saw  him — his  voice  broke  sud 
denly  in  the  midst  of  that  song.  His  life's  song  has 
suddenly  ceased  just  that  way! 

They  buried  him  in  that  part  of  the  cemetery 
where  the  grass  is  long  and  unkept. 

The  bell  did  not  toll. 

In  that  part  of  the  cemetery,  there  are  no  crosses 
on  the  graves. 

The  life-size  image  of  Jesus  on  the  great  wooden 
cross  in  the  center  faces  the  other  way. 

I  cannot  adjust  myself  to  it. 

How  can  such  things  happen? 

Have  pity,  O  God ! 

305 


Chapter  XXXVII:  The  Inevitable 

I  DO  not  know  what  I  should  have  done  during 
these  difficult  days  without  David.  Most  of  the 
time,  I  have  wanted  to  be  alone.  But  when  I 
wished  to  talk  over  things  with  some  one,  I  sent  for 
him. 

One  can  forget  one's  sorrow  a  little  by  thinking  of 
the  happiness  of  others. 

And  David  has  found  happiness. 

Love  and  death — are  they  not  the  themes  of  the 
best  things  ever  written  or  sung  by  mere  men?  Love 
and  death,  death  and  love !  Between  these  two  reali 
ties  life's  ceaseless  pendulum  swings.  Love  and 
death — how  they  answer  one  another,  purge  one 
another,  transfigure  one  another!  After  all,  may 
they  not  be  joined  together  in  some  great  and  won 
derful  way  we  know  not  now?  May  they  not  be 
one  and  the  same  thing  in  the  mystery  of  God? 

I,  an  old  man,  saddened  with  the  grief  of  death, 
find  comfort  in  thinking  of  the  love  of  Germaine 
and  David.  For,  looking  at  the  matter  without 
prejudice,  I  now  perceive  that  these  two  have  it  in 
them  to  fulfill  in  many  respects  the  ideal  of  a  per 
fect,  earthly  love.  Both  these  young  hearts  are  un- 

306 


The  Inevitable  307 

sullied  and  true,  and  their  love  is  likely  to  be  of  the 
kind  that  endures  and  ennobles.  Each  will  find  in 
the  other  a  suggestion  of  that  divine  love  which  is 
beyond  them  and  all  earthly  things. 

In  Germaine,  David  has  found  a  fortune  above 
all  else  this  world  could  bring  him.  The  strongest, 
sweetest  virtues  of  earth  will  be  with  him  constantly 
in  her  daily  presence;  more  and  more  he  will  dis 
cover  how  natural,  and  simple,  and  direct  she  is,  with 
no  shadow  of  deceit;  how  the  glory  of  the  health  of 
her  body  is  expressed  in  the  glory  of  the  health  of 
her  mind.  In  her  he  will  find  cheerfulness  that 
knows  the  dear  content  that  is  in  common  things 
made  beautiful  by  a  touch;  large-heartedness  and 
sympathy;  faith  in  the  triumph  of  all  good  hopes 
such  as  are  born  of  valiant  souls;  the  will  to  achieve 
without  boasting — and  all  these  virtues  mirrored  in 
a  face  that  he  will  treasure  as  the  dearest  sight  his 
eyes  will  ever  see. 

I  now  see  that  it  was  inevitable  that  such  a  man 
as  David  should  have  been  drawn  to  Germaine  from 
the  first.  One  might  put  it  this  way:  If  David  loves 
Gascony,  how  could  he  help  loving  Germaine?  For 
she  is  the  beauty  and  glory  of  Gascony  expressed  in 
a  soul  and  a  body. 

Some  days  ago,  I  spoke  with  Madame  Sance.  Per 
haps  I  did  not  raise  as  many  objections  as  I  should. 
I  had  had  another  long  talk  with  David  about  the 
Church.  He  will  respect  Germaine's  religion  as  a 
sacred  thing.  He  will  not  discourage  her  loyalty  to 
the  things  she  has  been  taught,  and  will  sometimes 
go  to  mass  with  her.  It  will  be  a  solace  to  both 


308  Abbe  Pierre 

Madame  Sance  and  myself  to  know  this.  Then,  too, 
their  children  will  be  brought  up  within  the  Church. 
I  have  a  secret  hope  that  perhaps,  some  day,  Ger- 
maine  will  be  able  to  lead  David  to  share  her  high 
faith  and  kneel  with  her  before  God,  their  souls  made 
one  in  a  new  and  blessed  way. 

Madame  Sance  has  consented.  The  wedding  will 
be  soon — too  soon,  alas !  It  is  not  long  now  before 
David  must  go  back  to  America.  His  college,  which 
is  in  the  Department  of  Ohio,  opens  in  September 
he  tells  me.  He  wants  to  take  Germaine  with  him. 

America  is  far;  but  surely,  they  will  come  back 
again !  That  is  the  comfort.  These  Americans  are 
great  travelers.  David's  passion  for  Gascony  will 
not  die;  and,  besides,  for  Germaine's  sake  alone  he 
will  surely  come.  Then,  his  own  sister  may  remain 
here  at  the  chateau;  certainly  she  will  be  here  sum 
mers.  Yes,  I  know  David  will  come  back! 

There  are  some  things  in  this  world  that  are  inevi 
table.  And  it  is  good  to  think  that  where  the  inevi 
table  is,  God  has  something  in  mind  which  He  wishes 
to  accomplish. 

That  we  do  not  understand  it  is  a  matter  of  minor 
importance. 


Chapter  XXXVIII :  Compromises 

THE  devil  has  been  about  to  enter  our  little 
village — I  speak  figuratively — in  the  form  of 
a  cinema  theater.  It  was  all  the  idea  of  the 
little  doctor. 

"Nothing  ever  happens  in  this  village,"  he  had 
said.  "There  are  no  amusements." 

So  he  and  Rigot,  the  proprietor  of  the  cafe,  put 
their  heads  together  and  decided  to  have  a  theater 
for  moving  pictures. 

But  where  was  a  hall  big  enough?  The  poultry 
market  is  not  walled  in,  so  it  would  not  do  in  cold 
weather.  The  little  doctor  had  a  happy  thought; 
he  would  use  the  old  winery  back  of  his  house. 

For  a  number  of  days  they  have  been  clearing  it 
out,  leveling  the  dirt  floor  and  moving  away  loads 
of  earth  with  an  ox-cart.  They  even  started  to  make 
a  few  benches. 

As  for  myself,  I  was  most  thoroughly  against  it 
•all.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  like  our  village  as  it  is, 
and  do  not  want  its  simple  charm  destroyed  by  the 
intrusion  of  what  they  call  modern  improvements, 
which,  to  my  mind,  often  do  not  improve  at  all.  If 
our  village  has  a  decided  individuality,  it  is  partly 

309 


3IO  Abbe  Pierre 

because  it  has  preferred  to  retain  the  good  old  cus 
toms,  rather  than  to  adopt  questionable  new  ones. 
I  do  not  believe  in  this  particular  kind  of  amusement 
anyway.  I  went  to  a  cinema  theater  in  Paris  once, 
and  the  pictures  I  saw  were  the  very  opposite  of  up 
lifting.  Whenever  a  traveling  cinema  has  come  to 
Aignan,  I  have  advised  people  not  to  go.  But  they 
have  gone  just  the  same,  which  is  additional  proof 
of  what  a  temptation  such  things  are. 

I  had  not  yet  talked  to  the  little  doctor  about  this 
project  of  his,  hoping  hat  he  would  find  some  reason 
to  abandon  it.  But  this  morning  he  came  to  bring 
me  that  bottle  of  armagnac  which  Madame  Sance 
had  promised  me,  so  I  took  occasion  to  ask  him  how 
it  was  progressing. 

And  then  I  heard  something  that  cheered  my 
whole  day. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  all  over,"  he  said.  "Yesterday, 
Marthe" — that  is  his  wife — uwent  out  and  saw  what 
was  being  done  in  the  winery.  I  was  in  the  country 
at  the  time.  Since  talking  with  her  last  night,  I 
have  changed  my  mind.  I  had  never  been  sure  that 
Marthe  liked  it.  She  had  said  nothing  much,  and 
when  she  says  nothing — well,  one  is  not  certain." 

After  all,  life  is  full  of  compromises  like  that. 
We  never  get  exactly  what  we  want;  or,  if  we  do,  we 
lose  something  else  that  we  want  just  as  much  or 
more.  One  might  say  that  by  this  compromise,  the 
doctor  got  nothing;  but  that  would  be  a  mistake.  He 
had  the  pleasure  of  carrying  his  project  up  to  a  cer 
tain  point;  and  then,  when  it  came  to  the  choice  of 
fulfilling  it,  on  the  one  hand,  or  of  having  peace  with 


Compromises  311 

Marthe  on  the  other,  he  chose  the  latter,  which  was 
the  far  greater  thing  to  have. 

At  my  age,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
little  doctor's  case  is  not  exceptional;  that  most  of 
our  problems  have  to  be  settled  by  compromises. 
There  is  Mauser,  that  little  hamlet  just  the  other 
side  of  the  forest.  It  is  just  between  the  communes 
of  Aignan  and  Averon,  and  belongs  to  neither. 
How  does  it  settle  its  problem?  When  its  babies 
are  brought  into  the  world,  they  are  baptized  here 
in  Aignan;  and  when  its  old  die,  they  are  buried  in 
the  little  cemetery  over  in  Averon. 

It  is  only  God  that  never  compromises. 

The  real  reason  why  we  human  beings  have  to 
solve  so  many  problems  that  way  is  that  we  are  lim 
ited  in  two  things,  our  knowledge  and  our  power. 
Either  we  are  not  sure  of  what  is  the  best  thing,  so 
we  do  the  next  best;  or,  the  best  thing  can't  be  done, 
because  we  have  not  the  power  to  do  it — circum 
stances  baffle  us. 

In  his  very  last  letter  to  me,  the  Abbe  Rivoire 
put  it  in  this  way: 

"Our  human  intellects  are  like  lamps  of  va 
rious  degrees  of  intensity;  some  are  brighter 
than  others,  but  they  all  cast  shadows." 

There  is  Henri's  hunting-dog,  Dick.  They  often 
tie  Dick  at  the  end  of  a  long  rope  fastened  to  a  tree. 
Sometimes  he  wanders  around  and  around  the  tree, 
until  the  rope  gets  very  short.  Dick  never  quite  un 
derstands  what  has  happened.  He  tries  in  every  way 


312  Abbe  Pierre 

but  the  right  way  to  unwind  his  line.  Finally,  the  so 
lution  of  his  problem  is  a  compromise ;  he  lies  down, 
or,  perhaps  he  howls  or  barks,  knowing  that  if  he 
waits  long  enough,  Henri  will  notice  him  and  release 
him  from  his  predicament.  His  reason  is  limited. 
I,  who  look  on,  would  know  what  to  do,  but  Dick 
doesn't. 

So,  God  would  know  what  to  do,  but  I  don't. 

Therefore,  I  do  the  best  I  can.  The  beauty  of  it 
all  is  that  I  can  at  least  do  something.  I  have  wis 
dom  enough  for  that.  I  am  never  utterly  defeated. 
There  is  even  a  measure  of  victory  in  the  compro 
mise  my  poor  reason  makes. 

Old  age  is  the  time  when  one  realizes  all  this  most, 
Our  ideals — those  of  this  world — are  every  one  of 
them  compromised  by  that  time.  But  every  such 
compromise  means  some  compensation,  for  which  it 
is  our  business  to  thank  God. 

For  instance,  we  old  men — when  the  living  have 
left  us,  we  can  at  least  commune  with  the  dead  and 
find  our  solace  there ! 

I  do  not  know  what  it  was  that  led  my  steps 
thither,  but  when  the  little  doctor  was  gone,  I 
strolled  down  the  road  from  my  garden,  opened  the 
creaking,  iron  gates  of  our  cemetery  close  by  and 
entered,  closing  the  gates  behind  me. 

On  every  side,  the  high  stone  wall,  covered  with 
moss  and  ivy,  shut  me  out  from  the  world. 

How  peaceful  it  was! 

I  was  the  only  one  there — and  yet  so  many  were 
there ! 

I  sat  down  on  a  low  stone  wall  shutting  in  the 


Compromises  3*3 

graves  of  an  ancient  family  of  our  region,  and  looked 
about  me. 

The  sunshine  lay  over  everything,  save  where  the 
tall  cypresses  cast  their  brooding  shadows;  it  rested 
lingeringly  on  rows  and  rows  of  crosses,  large  and 
small;  crosses  of  stone,  of  wood,  of  iron,  hung  with 
wreaths  and  rosaries — the  sun  lay  over  them  all,  till 
they  seemed  emblems  of  life,  not  of  death;  of  joy, 
not  sorrow.  Yes,  this  morning,  the  sunshine  had 
penetrated  into  this  little  world,  and  was  different 
from  the  sunshine  anywhere  else.  The  flowers  in 
bloom  over  the  graves  here  and  there  were  glorious 
with  it,  and  even  the  faded  bouquets  in  their  vases 
did  not  look  so  pitiful ;  touched  by  its  delicate  mira 
cle,  the  motionless  grasses  were  caught  in  some  dream 
of  such  subtle  beauty  that  the  least  footfall  might 
have  destroyed  it.  In  the  distance,  yellow  butterflies 
floated  between  the  trees — golden  memories  come 
back  from  days  the  dead  once  knew.  And  no  sound 
at  all  except  the  occasional  call  of  a  bird,  exquisitely 
clear,  or  the  strident  and  monotonous  note  of  a 
cigale,  or  faint  footsteps  passing  outside  along  the 
road,  and  once  the  muffled  rattle  of  a  cart,  which, 
when  it  was  gone,  made  the  silence  more  apparent 
than  before. 

I  thought  to  myself,  "It  is  as  I  have  often  said, 
death  is  more  friendly  here,  more  gentle  here  than 
anywhere  else  in  the  world !" 

While  I  was  still  sitting  there,  thinking  such 
things,  I  heard  the  creak  of  the  iron  gates  at  the 
entrance,  and  I  knew  I  was  no  longer  alone.  I  got 
up  and  turned  slowly  toward  the  east  wall,  by  which 


314  Abbe  Pierre 

is  the  grave  of  Jean-Louis  Sance,  a  grave  to  which  I 
often  go,  musing  over  the  old  days  when  this  splen 
did  man  filled  a  place  in  my  heart  that  has  never  been 
filled  since. 

His  grave  is  surrounded  by  a  low  iron  fence,  deli 
cately  wrought,  green  with  moss.  Back  of  it  is  the 
stone  wall  of  the  cemetery,  over  which  the  ivy  tum 
bles  in  richer  profusion  than  anywhere  else.  Over 
the  grave  is  a  large  cross  of  wrought  iron,  hung 
with  wreaths.  If  you  stand  farther  back  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  cemetery,  you  see  this  cross  rising  above 
the  wall  and  outlined  against  the  tower  of  the  village 
church  just  beyond.  The  bell  of  the  town  hall,  strik 
ing  the  hours,  can  be  heard  here  very  clearly;  he  him 
self  put  that  bell  in  its  tower  when  he  was  our  mayor. 

I  heard  soft  footsteps  on  the  path  coming  nearer 
and  nearer,  and,  turning,  was  surprised  and  pleased 
to  find  it  was  Germaine.  In  her  arm  was  a  large 
bouquet  of  dahlias  and  asters. 

"They  are  more  beautiful  than  ever  this  year," 
she  remarked  as  she  opened  the  little  gate  and  pre 
pared  to  arrange  them  in  the  large  vase  she  always 
keeps  filled  with  fresh  flowers  at  the  head  of  the 
grave. 

"The  rosebush  here  at  the  foot — did  it  bloom 
this  year?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  it  bloomed  early;  it  was  beautiful  in  May — 
large  red  roses;  and  the  pinks  and  violets,  they  all 


came  out." 


"In  spite  of  these  cypresses,"  I  went  on,  "I  have 
noticed  that  the  sun  gets  to  this  place  three  times  a 


Compromises  315 

day;  once  in  the  morning,  once  early  in  the  after 
noon,  and  again  toward  sunset." 

Germaine  was  clearing  the  grave  of  some  of  the 
longer  grasses  and  was  casting  aside  the  withered 
flowers  she  had  brought  several  days  before.  Her 
face  was  turned  away  from  me.  Then  for  a  long 
time  she  stood  silent,  looking  away  over  the  ceme 
tery  wall,  past  that  cross;  oh,  I  am  sure  she  was  not 
seeing  the  church  tower  at  all !  Finally,  she  turned 
to  me,  saying, 

"It  is  quiet  here." 

Yes,  thank  God,  it  is  quiet  here  where  the  dead 
sleep.  But  the  silence  of  death,  what  a  terrible  si 
lence  it  is  for  the  heart  of  a  child  like  this!  Love 
and  death !  Here  they  were  again,  an  infinite  joy  and 
an  infinite  pathos,  struggling  together  in  one  soul. 

Ah,  what  a  compromise  life  is,  indeed! 

Yet  the  love  that  has  newly  come  into  her  life,  it 
will  possess  her  more  and  more;  and  when  she  is  far 
away,  this  little  grave  among  the  cypress  trees  will 
gradually  become  one  of  those  memories  that  bless 
us — cherished  more  than  any  joy  she  ever  knew. 

After  Germaine  had  gone,  I  went  over  and  stood 
long  by  the  newly-made  grave  of  Marius  Fontan. 

He  would  not  compromise  with  life. 

There  were  no  flowers  anywhere  near.  But  I  had 
noticed  that  Germaine  had  thrown  aside  a  large,  red 
dahlia  from  her  bouquet,  because  it  was  a  little  with 
ered, 

I  went  back  and  got  it. 

It  made  that  rough,  barren,  lonely  mound  look 
less  forsaken. 


Chapter  XXXIX:  The  Wedding 

THE  great  event — it  has  happened ! 
For  three  weeks  before  the  wedding,  people 
read  the  bans  posted  on  the  bulletin  board  in 
the  arcades  of  the  town  hall,  the  dispensation  having 
arrived.     And  for  three  Sundays,  our  old  cure  had 
to  announce  the  coming  marriage  in  the  church,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  he  plainly  thinks  that  Madame 
Sance  is  making  a  mistake.     I  am  afraid  that  our 
cure  holds  me  responsible  for  it.    I  was  glad  that  he 
did  not  mind  when  I  was  asked  to  officiate. 

"It  is  but  natural,"  he  said.  "You  are  such  an 
old  friend  of  the  family." 

If  it  had  been  the  young  vicar,  I  am  sure  he  would 
not  have  been  so  graceful  about  it.  But  nothing  can 
harm  the  friendship  of  the  old  Abbe  Castex  and  my 
self,  for  reasons  we  both  know. 

Any  one  passing  the  house  on  the  Road  of  the 
Madonna  the  day  before  the  wedding  would  easily 
notice  that  something  very  unusual  was  going  on. 
Back  in  the  big  kitchen,  four  or  five  extra  cooks  were 
busy  with  the  preparations  for  the  wedding  dinner; 
and  little  Renee,  the  kitchen  girl,  was  running  hither 
and  thither  on  a  hundred  errands.  Even  old  Mari- 

316 


The  Wedding  317 

nette  was  in  to  help,  although  later,  being  a  lifelong 
neighbor,  she  was  to  assume  the  dignity  of  an  in 
vited  guest.  Robust,  red-faced,  jovial  Marinette ! — 
she  was  present  when  Germaine  was  born,  and  she 
can  hardly  bring  herself  to  think  of  her  as  anything 
more  than  a  baby  still ;  several  times  she  stops  in  her 
work  in  a  bewildered  way  and  delivers  herself  of 
some  trifling  incident  of  Germaine's  childhood,  which 
she  has  long  cherished,  but  which  seems  so  impos 
sible  now. 

But  the  others  have  very  little  time  to  listen  to 
her.  There  are  the  soups  to  make,  and  the  pastries 
to  be  baked,  and  the  chickens  and  turkeys  and  guinea- 
hens  to  get  ready — there  are  at  least  thirty  of  them 
in  a  row  on  the  long  table;  and  then  there  are  so 
many  other  things  that  it  would  make  one's  head 
dizzy  to  enumerate  them.  Old  Marinette's  task  it 
is  to  get  ready  the  galantine  of  chicken,  a  task  which 
she  knows  how  to  do  best,  and  which  has  to  be  done 
with  patience  and  tact.  As  I  understand  it,  you 
first  perform  the  feat  of  getting  all  the  bones  out 
of  the  chicken  without  taking  it  apart,  except  you 
do  remove  the  ends  of  the  wings  and  the  feet  before 
you  begin.  Then  you  fill  up  the  places  where  the 
bones  were  with  stuffing  made  of  chopped  pork  and 
veal  and  other  things;  then,  after  you  have  sewed 
up  the  skin  again,  you  wrap  a  cloth  around  it  and 
boil  it  for  hours  in  some  rich  stock,  including  calves' 
feet;  when  it  is  done  you  have  something  not  far 
short  of  concentrated  goodness.  You  serve  it  cold  in 
its  own  jelly — and  above  all  things  you  must  not 
have  forgotten  the  truffles. 


318  Abbe  Pierre 

Outside  the  house,  too,  important  things  are  hap 
pening.  The  little  doctor  himself  is  busily  directing 
some  peasants  who  have  just  arrived  from  the  for 
est,  their  ox-carts  laden  with  tall,  young  trees.  One 
by  one  they  are  being  set  up  along  the  driveway  on 
both  sides,  two  even  rows  of  them,  stretching  from 
the  great  iron  gates  at  the  entrance  clear  back  to 
the  barns.  On  these  will  be  hung  strings  of  gay, 
paper  lanterns — they  are  in  that  big  box  from  Auch, 
standing  on  end  by  the  cellar  door. 

Also,  back  in  one  of  the  two  large  barns,  at  the 
end  of  the  driveway,  mysterious  preparations  are 
going  on.  Even  at  this  moment  Angele — Germaine's 
sister  from  Bordeaux — and  Juliette,  her  pretty  cou 
sin  from  St.  Sever  de  Rustan,  are  going  in  through 
the  wide-open  doors,  the  one  with  an  armful  of  white 
cloth,  and  the  other  with  branches  and  flowers. 

Relatives  old  and  young,  from  near  and  far,  are 
arriving  all  day  long,  and  Madame  Sance  is  contin 
ually  being  called  to  the  front  door  to  greet  them. 
One  thing  is»  certain,  they  cannot  all  be  accommo 
dated  in  this  one  house,  immense  as  it  is;  it  would 
require  a  good-sized  inn  to  take  care  of  them  all ! 
But  the  homes  of  many  neighbors  are  open  to  them, 
so  everybody  is  happily  placed;  and  by  evening  our 
village  has  taken  on  new  life,  and  everybody  is  talk 
ing  about  the  event  of  the  morrow — especially  about 
this  young  American,  concerning  whom  there  are 
many  opinions.  Not  one  of  the  new  arrivals,  how 
ever,  can  deny  that  the  groom  is  a  handsome  fellow 
— those  who  went  at  five  o'clock  to  the  civil  cere 
mony  at  the  town  hall  are  unanimous  about  that! 


The  Wedding 

And  how  well  he  and  Germaine  looked  together  as 
they  stood  before  Rigot,  the  deputy  mayor,  in  the 
long  council  room!  Of  course,  although  the  little 
doctor  is  mayor,  it  would  hardly  have  been  fitting  for 
him  to  have  officiated,  since  Germaine  is  in  his  own 
family. 

It  is  clear  that  David  does  not  even  yet  understand 
our  customs  very  well.  In  the  first  place,  he  did  not 
know  that  there  had  to  be  two  ceremonies,  this  one 
at  the  town  hall,  and  the  other  at  the  church.  Of 
course,  I  explained  to  him  that  while  the  former 
was  necessary,  the  really  important  ceremony  was 
the  one  that  would  occur  at  the  church  the  following 
day.  And  then  he  made  the  most  extraordinary  sug 
gestion;  he  wanted  to  know  if  the  religious  ceremony 
could  not  be  arranged  at  Germaine's  home  instead ! 

They  actually  have  wedding  ceremonies  in  the 
houses  in  America ! 

We  do  not  do  things  that  way.  It  is  unthinkable. 
How  could  the  marriage  ceremony  be  anywhere  but 
in  God's  sanctuary,  and  how  can  people  be  truly 
made  man  and  wife  except  before  His  holy  altar? 

I  was  afraid  it  would  be  bad  weather  the  day  of 
the  wedding.  For  late  the  night  before  there  was  a 
terrible  storm,  with  high  wind  and  hail ;  the  trees  the 
little  doctor  had  set  up  by  the  driveway  were  all 
blown  down.  But  the  next  morning  when  I  looked 
out  my  window,  the  sun  was  brighter  than  ever,  and 
the  Pyrenees  could  be  seen  rising  above  the  haze  to 
the  south — I  think  I  never  saw  them  look  more  beau 
tiful;  there  was  something  sad  about  their  beauty 


32O  Abbe  Pierre 

this  time,  but  they  looked  wonderful  and  majestic 
for  all  that. 

When  I  went  up  to  the  church  to  say  mass,  it 
was  very  early;  but  already  young  girls  and  boys 
were  strewing  the  Street  of  the  Balustrade  with  green 
branches  and  flowers. 

It  was  about  half-past  ten  when  the  wedding  pro 
cession  started  from  Madame  Sance's  house.  My 
Aunt  Madeleine  saw  it  and  told  me  about  it;  and 
when  my  Aunt  Madeleine  tells  anything,  nothing  at 
all  is  left  out.  Two  by  two  it  slowly  made  its  way 
along  the  Road  of  the  Madonna  toward  the  village: 
first,  Germaine,  on  the  arm  of  the  little  doctor;  then 
David  and  his  sister;  then  the  bridesmaids  and  their 
escorts;  then  Madame  Sance,  on  the  arm  of  Mau 
rice,  Angele's  husband ;  and  then  the  other  relatives 
of  the  family.  On  the  procession  went,  up  the  Street 
of  the  Balustrade  to  the  church  door,  the  whole  way 
strewn  with  flowers,  the  bell  from  the  church  all  the 
while  sending  its  echoes  out  over  the  valleys  and 
hills. 

Ah,  when  will  Germaine  ever  hear  that  bell  again? 
I  remember  when  it  rang  at  her  christening! 

My  Aunt  Madeleine  said  that  the  bride  was  most 
entrancing,  with  her  dress  of  soft,  white  silk,  glisten 
ing  in  the  sunshine,  and  her  long,  white  veil,  and  the 
crown  of  orange  blossoms  on  her  head,  orange  blos 
soms,  too,  in  her  hand,  sent  all  the  way  from  Nice, 
and  two  tiny  girls  bearing  her  train,  and  she  herself 
looking  fresher  and  sweeter  than  she  ever  did  be 
fore. 

I  suppose  that  the  church  was  never  more  won- 


The  Wedding  321 

derfully  decorated.  My  Aunt  Madeleine  had  taken 
charge  of  that,  and  it  is  the  first  time  that  I  had  ever 
observed  anything  of  an  artistic  nature  in  her.  One 
never  knows. 

In  front  of  the  altar,  beautiful  with  flowers  from 
our  best  gardens  and  lit  with  numerous  candles,  two 
low  prie-Dieu  had  been  placed  for  the  bride  and 
groom.  As  the  little  doctor  escorted  Germaine  up 
the  aisle,  Sarrade,  the  sabot-maker,  put  all  the  music 
he  could  into  the  little  organ,  until  it  sounded  almost 
like  the  pipe-organ  we  have  always  been  hoping  to 
have  some  day.  Then  the  music  became  very  quiet 
and  hushed  as  Germaine  and  David  knelt  before  the 
altar,  waiting  for  the  service  to  begin. 

I  did  my  very  best  to  say  the  ceremony  as  it  should 
be  said,  but  it  was  with  an  aching  heart.  Who  that 
was  there  will  ever  forget  the  aria  Angele  sang  from 
Massenet's  La  Vierge?  I  never  heard  such  singing 
in  our  church  before — so  exquisite! — it  almost 
seemed  as  if  through  it  the  heart  of  Germaine  was 
saying  its  farewell  to  all  of  us  in  notes  that  had  that 
pure  mingling  of  sadness  and  joy  which  thrills 
through  all  the  songs  that  are  truly  great. 

When  the  bride  and  groom  had  led  the  procession 
back  to  the  house,  the  festivities  of  the  day  began; 
festivities  that  were  to  continue  into  the  early  hours 
of  the  next  morning.  The  wedding  dinner — every 
body  was  looking  forward  to  that,  for  it  was  to  be 
something  quite  out  of  the  ordinary,  especially,  on 
account  of  the  place  where  it  was  to  be  held,  in  one 
of  the  spacious  barns  at  the  end  of  the  driveway, 


322  Abbe  Pierre 

where  the  cask-making  and  repairing  used  to  be 
done. 

You  would  never  know  it  was  a  barn  when  once 
you  got  inside.  The  walls  were  covered  up  with 
sheets,  decorated  all  over  with  flowers,  and  greenery. 
Two  long  tables  ran  from  end  to  end,  and  the  doors 
at  the  front  and  rear  were  thrown  wide  open  so  that 
the  breezes  played  through,  making  it  deliciously 
cool,  although  it  was  a  warm  day,  as  everybody  who 
had  just  marched  down  the  hot  road  from  the  church 
could  well  attest.  It  was  a  fine  idea  to  have  this 
wedding  dinner  in  the  barn;  the  little  doctor,  who  is 
exceedingly  fertile  in  ideas,  told  me  he  thought  of  it 
first.  There  was  no  use  trying  to  have  it  in  the 
house ;  how  could  one  hundred  and  fifty  people  ever 
have  been  put  into  one  dining  room? 

As  one  went  in,  one  noticed  that  at  the  table  on 
the  left  all  the  young  people  were  being  seated,  while 
the  one  on  the  right  was  for  the  older  people,  with 
the  bride  and  groom  in  a  place  of  honor  at  the  mid 
dle.  I  was  put  very  near  them,  across  from  David's 
sister.  I  observed  that  the  old  Abbe  Castex  was 
there,  away  down  toward  the  end  of  the  table.  He 
was  not  sure  he  would  be  able  to  come,  but  he  came 
after  all,  and  was  even  in  good  spirits,  already  talk 
ing  almost  amiably  with  his  neighbor,  Madame  La- 
coste,  thoroughly  innocent  of  her  well-known  opinion 
of  him.  Down  toward  the  other  end,  I  saw  Mari- 
nette  and  a  few  other  neighbors  who  had  known  Ger- 
maine  all  her  life. 

While  I  was  looking  over  at  Germaine  and  her 
mother,  who  sat  by  her — Germaine  had  removed 


The  Wedding  323 

her  veil,  but  still  kept  her  crown  of  orange  blossoms 
— David's  sister  spoke  to  me  across  the  table  in  Eng 
lish  (so  that  no  one  else  understood), 

"It  is  not  our  custom  in  America  to  wear  evening 
dress-suits  in  the  daytime;  my  big  brother  remon 
strated  vigorously  when  I  told  him  he  would  have 


to." 


It  would  have  been  unusual  if  David  had  appeared 
in  anything  else.  He  looked  handsome  and  even  dis 
tinguished  in  it,  too.  All  the  men  guests  except  one 
or  two  had  them. 

There  were  many  people  there  who  had  never 
eaten  a  dinner  such  as  they  sat  down  to  this  day. 
Even  the  Abbe  Castex,  who  used  to  be  an  expert  in 
such  matters,  confided  to  me  afterwards  that  it  was 
the  most  marvelous  dinner  he  had  ever  experienced. 
True,  he  had  to  stop  after  the  fifth  or  sixth  course, 
which  was  only  about  halfway  through,  as  he  could 
have  known  beforehand  if  he  had  only  read  the  menu 
each  one  had  by  his  plate,  especially  printed  for  this 
occasion  at  Auch.  But  plainly,  he  did  not  realize 
how  things  were  going  and  reached  the  limits  of  his 
powers  sooner  than  he  otherwise  should.  However, 
since  the  dinner  lasted  about  three  hours,  and  since 
there  was  no  hurry  between  courses,  he  was  able  to 
rally  again  toward  the  end,  and  finished  with  some 
show  of  valor. 

As  for  me,  I  ate  rather  sparingly.  Try  as  I  would, 
I  could  not  enter  fully  into  the  gayety  that  was  all 
about  me,  even  though  I  was  truly  glad  that  these 
two  souls  were  looking  forward  to  such  happiness. 
Besides,  I  thought  that  I  would  propose  a  toast  later 


324  Abbe  Pierre 

on,  and  I  was  considering  what  kind  of  a  speech  I 
should  make.  For  I  am  like  Montaigne  in  this,  that 
"occasion,  company,  draws  more  from  my  mind  than 
I  can  find  therein  when  by  myself  I  endeavor  to  em 
ploy  the  same." 

At  length,  when  the  time  for  champagne  came, 
I  perceived  my  opportunity,  and  rose  in  my  place. 
Very  soon  everybody  was  quiet,  and  I  began, 

"It  is  fitting  that  old  age  should  drink  a  toast  to 
youth;  for  old  age  was  once  young,  wishes  that  it 
were  still  young,  and  sees  the  glory  of  youth  as  youth 
itself  never  can. 

"Our  little  village  has  been  neglected  by  the  his 
torians,  although  interesting  things  have  often  hap 
pened  in  it.  Perhaps  Americans  who  never  yet  heard 
of  this  place,  which  to  us  means  all  that  makes  our 
lives  dear,  will  ask,  'Where  and  what  is  this  Aignan, 
that  such  a  bride  as  Monsieur  Ware's  may  be  found 
in  it?' 

"Through  these  open  doors,  I  can  just  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  garden  yonder.  It  may  well  occur  to 
you  that  the  best  flower  it  ever  knew  is  now  being 
taken  far  away.  May  Monsieur  Ware  cherish  this 
flower  of  our  Gascony  always;  may  God  give  His 
sunshine  to  their  days;  and  may  they  never  forget 
this  little  corner  of  the  world,  and  may  it  so  call 
to  their  hearts  that  they  cannot  resist  its  call  and  will 
soon  come  back  to  us !" 

I  could  not  say  any  more,  for,  although  I  smiled, 


The  Wedding  325 

I  felt  a  catch  in  my  throat  which  I  am  glad  nobody 
noticed. 

After  the  dinner,  everybody  went  out-of-doors  and 
strolled  about  the  cool  garden,  or  gathered  in  inti 
mate  groups  under  the  trees,  the  men  smoking,  and 
the  women  exchanging  endless  gossip — oh,  of  a 
harmless  kind,  for  after  such  a  dinner,  everybody 
felt  good  and  at  peace  with  all  the  world. 

I  overheard  old  Marinette  trying  to  tell  David 
in  part  patois  and  part  French  that  "Germaine  was 
a  good  catch !"  her  ruddy  face  beaming  with  homely 
good-nature.  A  little  later,  he  joined  me  where  I 
was  standing  for  a  moment  in  a  corner  of  the  gar 
den,  under  a  chestnut  tree.  Germaine  had  gone  into 
the  house.  Later,  I  learned  that  she  could  not  re 
sist  going  up  to  the  attic  to  take  a  last  look  at  some 
old  things  that  were  stored  up  there,  things  asso 
ciated  with  her  childhood,  such  as  a  tiny  chair  that 
was  once  her  favorite,  some  picture-books,  and  toys 
of  various  kinds,  including  an  old  doll  which  I  well 
remember  seeing  her  play  with  in  this  very  garden 
when  she  was  a  little  girl. 

While  I  was  standing  there  with  David,  I  heard 
the  most  remarkable  thing.  Monsieur  Rigot  came 
up  and  told  David  that  he  wished  to  give  him  sev 
eral  bottles  of  a  very  rare  champagne  he  had,  to  take 
to  America  with  him. 

"I  hear  you  will  not  come  back  to  us  for  two  years ; 
when  you  drink  this,  you  will  think  of  us." 

But  David  informed  him  that  in  America  they 
were  not  allowed  to  drink  champagne,  no,  nor  wines 
of  any  kind! 


326  Abbe  Pierre 

"But  this  is  good  wine,"  I  remonstrated,  some 
what  at  a  loss,  "not  wine  such  as  any  law  could  ob 
ject  to." 

And  then  I  found  out  that  it  did  not  make  any 
difference  how  excellent  the  wine  was,  Americans 
would  not  be  permitted  to  drink  it  if  the  government 
found  out  about  it.  Indeed,  they  would  be  punished 
very  severely. 

I  cannot  understand  it,  especially  since  America 
has  no  king,  whose  whim  could  be  made  into  a  law. 
I  have  seen  a  number  of  Americans  here  in  France, 
and  they  never  refused  wine,  or  even  cognac  and 
liqueurs ;  in  fact,  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  they 
drank  more  than  was  good  for  them. 

The  event  of  the  day  toward  which  the  young 
people  most  looked  forward  was  the  grand  ball.  By 
six  o'clock,  when  it  was  beginning  to  get  cool,  most 
of  the  women  had  changed  to  their  evening  dresses ; 
and  soon  people  were  again  taking  their  way  toward 
the  barn,  only  this  time  they  went  up  the  staircase 
that  had  been  erected  on  the  outside,  leading  to  the 
big  loft.  Everything  there  had  been  moved  out  to 
make  room.  The  floor  had  been  waxed;  here,  as 
downstairs,  the  walls  were  covered  with  sheets  deco 
rated  with  flowers;  potted  plants  were  artistically 
arranged  here  and  there;  chairs  were  set  all  around 
the  wall;  and  from  the  rafters  hung  gasoline  lamps, 
very  primitive  in  looks,  fetched  from  the  winery. 
The  piano  had  been  moved  up  from  the  house ;  the 
musicians  came  clear  from  Mont  de  Marsan;  besides 
the  piano,  there  was  a  violin  and  a  cornet. 

A  moment  after  David  had  escorted  his  bride  out 


The  Wedding  327 

into  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  opened  the  ball  with 
the  first  dance,  the  space  was  filled  with  happy 
couples  moving  rhythmically  to  the  music  of  a  waltz. 

For  my  own  part,  during  the  long  evening  I  wan 
dered  about  in  the  garden  and  chatted  now  and  then 
with  some  of  my  old  friends;  but  much  of  the  time 
I  was  alone.  After  awhile,  the  moon  came  out, 
very  bright  through  the  trees,  and  though  the  garden 
and  driveway  were  hung  with  strings  of  gay  lanterns, 
which  everybody  thought  beautiful,  I  liked  the  lights 
in  the  sky  best.  Much  laughter  and  talk  were  wafted 
across  the  garden,  at  pauses  in  the  music,  from  those 
who  were  partaking  of  refreshments,  served  on  a 
wooden  platform  gay  with  red  cloth,  which  had  been 
built  between  the  two  barns,  at  a  level  with  the 
dancing  floor.  Right  where  the  platform  was,  there 
was  once  an  old  archway,  now  vanished,  where  Ger- 
maine's  swing  used  to  be. 

So  the  old  things  go  one  by  one;  and  then,  after 
awhile,  the  memories  go,  too;  or  is  any  memory 
ever  entirely  dead? 

I  had  no  desire  to  stay  very  late.  I  remained  to 
the  supper  that  was  served  at  ten  o'clock  and  then 
went  home.  They  would  be  dancing  there  until 
daylight.  I  knew  that  David  and  Germaine  intended 
quietly  to  withdraw  about  eleven  o'clock,  and  go  to 
Riscle  for  their  train. 

The  last  wedding  I  attended  was  out  in  the  coun 
try.  Of  course,  peasants  conduct  such  things  dif 
ferently.  I  was  telling  David  of  their  custom  of 
going  to  the  chamber  of  the  bride  and  groom  about 
midnight  to  bring  food  and  wine — I  have  known  of 


328  Abbe  Pierre 

the  door  being  broken  down  if  they  were  not  ad 
mitted. 

After  I  had  gone  home,  I  did  not  immediately  go 
to  bed.  My  shutters  were  wide  open.  As  I  sat 
there,  my  lamp  unlit,  musing  over  many  things,  the 
stars  looked  into  my  window  from  across  the  roofs 
of  the  houses  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

Suddenly,  I  heard  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  and 
the  rolling  of  a  carriage  rounding  the  corner  and 
coming  my  way  down  the  Street  of  the  Church.  I 
leaned  out  the  window.  It  went  rapidly  by  and  then 
rattled  out  across  the  Place,  awakening  a  thousand 
echoes  from  the  sleeping  houses;  and  then  the  sound 
of  the  wheels  gradually  faded  away  down  the  long 
road  toward  Riscle. 

And  I  sha'n't  see  them  for  two  years ! 


Chapter  XL :  Sunsets 

I  AM  sitting  alone  in  my  garden-house. 
The  day  is  nearly  done.     Through  the  open 
door,  I  look  out  now  and  then  at  the  church 
tower  near  by,  its  heavy,  windowless  wall  softened 
by  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun. 

How  old  and  crumbling  our  tower  is,  after  all !  I 
never  quite  realized  it  before.  I  wonder  how  long 
it  will  be  standing  there ! 

This  whole  village  of  ours  is  getting  old  and  fall 
ing  into  ruin,  and  the  number  of  people  in  it  is  be 
coming  less  and  less.  For  one  thing,  it  is  away  from 
any  railroad;  then,  there  is  no  river  running  through 
it,  so  there  are  no  factories,  and  the  young  men  do 
not  stay  here  any  more.  There  is  no  chance  for  them 
here. 

The  summer — this  wonderful  summer — is  passing 
away.  The  leaves  of  the  grapevine  over  the  door 
have  turned  red.  The  fields  are  no  longer  green. 
The  wheat  has  been  reaped. 

It  is  not  merely  that  the  summer  has  gone;  but 
so  much  else  has  gone  with  it ! 

Germaine  and  David — they  have  been  gone  three 
days  now. 

329 


330  Abbe  Pierre 

I  heard  this  morning  that  my  young  friend,  Henri, 
Germaine's  brother,  is  ordered  to  Algiers  to  com 
mence  his  military  service.  So  he  goes  also. 

Marius  is  gone. 

My  poor,  brave  friend,  the  Abbe  Rivoire — his 
sister  writes  from  Paris  that  he  was  too  weak  to  read 
my  last  letter.  She  had  to  read  it  to  him,  little  by 
little. 

As  I  muse  in  this  place  of  many  memories,  I  hear 
the  silvery  bells  of  the  oxen  along  the  road  in  the 
distance ;  one  notices  them  most  at  sunset. 

It  occurs  to  me  that  toward  this  same  sunset  David 
and  Germaine  are  at  this  moment  sailing! 

Two  years  is  not  so  very  long.  That  is  the  time 
that  David  said.  Well,  it  is  right  that  an  old  man 
should  not  be  compelled  to  live  entirely  in  his  memo 
ries;  he  should  have  his  hopes,  too. 

And  then,  I  am  to  be  appointed  cure  at  Sabazan 
— yes,  it  is  at  last  decided !  So  my  old  age — it  may 
become  a  strength,  not  a  weakness,  with  its  own 
achievements,  and  its  own  beauty,  too,  I  hope. 

Old  age  should  be  to  a  life  what  the  sunset  is  to 
a  day. 

Of  all  the  things  that  pass  into  the  night  of  death, 
the  day  knows  how  to  die  beautifully. 

Just  now,  a  last  gleam  of  sun  lit  up  some  yellow 
flowers  on  tall  stalks,  as  yet  unopened,  that  grow 
over  there  near  the  cemetery  wall.  "Beauties  of  the 
night"  they  are  called,  since  they  open  only  after 
sunset;  then  they  unfold  so  fast  that  one  can  almost 
detect  the  large  petals  in  the  very  act  of  pushing 
themselves  apart. 


Sunsets  331 

I  think  that  as  the  twilight  opens  the  hearts  of 
these  flowers,  so  the  twilight  of  a  man's  life  may 
make  his  soul  to  put  forth  blooms  that  his  youth 
never  knew — blooms  that  reach  up  through  the  dark 
ness  toward  heaven  I 

(4) 


THE   END 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


